


I Will Not Be Afraid

by 0_jtboi_SR2



Series: Dragon Age: Glory [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-11-04 16:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10995084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0_jtboi_SR2/pseuds/0_jtboi_SR2
Summary: Cassandra's eyes narrowed.  How could the Herald veer so quickly from solemnity to frivolousness? And why was she always smiling at her like that?"You know, you are not nearly as charming as you think you are.""So you do think I'm charming?""Ugh."





	1. We Don't Need Another Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the indefatigable feelslikefire for beta-ing duties. Although, really, this is all her fault.

“Again.”

Cassandra raised her sword and gestured at the figure sprawled out on the training ground before her. Trevelyan heaved a sigh, then raised her head from her prone position to look at the Seeker with pleading eyes. 

“Can I have my bow back now?”

“You wanted to learn, did you not?” The Seeker swung her blade back and forth, feeling the comfortable weight in her hand, and then set her feet. “Again.”

Trevelyan craned her neck to peer behind her from her position on the ground. Cullen stood off to the side of the courtyard, idly watching the sparring session as his men continued their training exercises behind him. 

“Any advice?” she called out to him. 

“Get up. Move faster.”

Trevelyan let out another sigh and hauled herself to her feet with a grimace. Cassandra watched her roll the shoulder she had just landed on, then heft the sword and hold it out in front of her awkwardly. She was smaller than Cassandra and quite thin; she needed both hands to hold the weapon, and her arms trembled at the effort of keeping it raised. Her hair was cropped short around her head save for the top, leaving an unruly mop of light brown hair that kept falling into her face. Sweat dripped down the sides of her temple, etching a clean line through the dirt on her cheeks. 

Cassandra eyed her critically. “Feet.”

Trevelyan looked down and widened her stance, making sure her weight was evenly distributed and that she was on the balls of her feet. She glanced back up at Cassandra, gritting her teeth. Cassandra nodded. 

“Begin.” 

Trevelyan attacked again, thrusting the blade forward with gusto, somehow managing the same level of enthusiasm as when the exercise had begun nearly an hour ago. Their blades met with a crash, the sound echoing across the courtyard. Cassandra easily deflected the blow, but was still pleased at the younger woman’s vigor. Trevelyan was a natural with a bow and arrow, but her close combat skills were distinctly lacking, and she had been eager to learn. Cassandra could already see improvement in the short time they had been working together. 

But no amount of enthusiasm was enough to replace Templar training. Cassandra countered each blow and pressed forward, driving Trevelyan back across the courtyard. The Herald blocked and parried as best she could, grunting every time she raised her sword, then lunged forward in an attempt to press back from Cassandra’s onslaught, locking their blades together at the guards. Trevelyan shoved into the other woman, heels driving into the ground. Cassandra looked into light grey eyes for just a moment before pivoting on her foot and shifting her weight. Trevelyan stumbled forward and Cassandra spun around, elbowing her hard in the back as she tumbled down face first. 

Trevelyan coughed and slammed her palm into the ground, sending up plumes of dirt. “Now I definitely want my bow.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes and sheathed her sword. “I believe that is enough for one day.” She walked over and offered her hand. 

Trevelyan rolled over and looked up at her. Their eyes met, and Cassandra noticed once again the odd color of the other woman’s irises. Trevelyan’s lips quirked up into a small smile and Cassandra immediately frowned, wondering what was so amusing. Trevelyan accepted her hand and climbed to her feet. 

“Perhaps a change might be in order.” Cullen walked over and picked up Trevelyan’s training sword. He returned it to the rack in the corner, then selected two daggers and brought them over to her. Her eyes widened as she grabbed them eagerly, turning them over in her hands and spinning them in her palms. She glanced up at Cassandra and her smile grew. 

“Again?”

Cassandra let out a disgusted noise. 

“Fine.”

***

The most obvious thing about the Herald of Andraste was her energy. Her exuberance was boundless, it seemed, and Cassandra could not decide if that was merely a product of her youth, her general disposition, or some combination of the two. She also could not decide her exact level of annoyance at it. On expeditions, Trevelyan was constantly leading them over rocks and hills and through messy undergrowth, no matter how many perfectly good paths lay just nearby. The party companions were often left scrambling clumsily to keep up, and on more than one occasion Cassandra had to tell the Herald to slow down, for Maker’s sake, as she climbed over yet another boulder, her shield banging so loudly against her armor that she was alerting the entire Hinterlands to their location. However, she secretly enjoyed listening to the dwarf Varric wheeze behind her; at least when he was short of breath, he could not run his mouth. 

Trevelyan also appeared incapable of using stairs properly; she was always jumping down them, or up them, taking three at a time as she darted from one end of Haven to the next. Chairs, too, were foreign objects--they were often spun around and sat in backwards or crosswise, or most times ignored altogether. She had even taken to sitting directly on the table in the war room, usually knocking over Cullen’s model trebuchets. It flustered the former Templar to no end, which Cassandra admitted to herself was slightly amusing. But only slightly. Most of the time it was completely inappropriate for a young woman of a noble house. 

“So this is what the Maker gives us, in our hour of need.”

Cassandra turned her head as Leliana quietly sidled up beside her. She had been checking over some requisition orders when she paused to watch Cullen’s soldiers training in the courtyard in front of Haven’s Chantry. Trevelyan was on the far side of the yard, almost hidden by the larger men and women sparring around her. She was taking on a fully armored man nearly twice her size, wielding a broadsword, while she carried only her two daggers. Cassandra watched as she danced around her target, darting in to slash at him and quickly retreating out of range of his sword. She was doing well until she mistimed an attack and ran headlong into the soldier's shield. He flung her away easily and she landed hard on her backside. 

Cassandra rolled her eyes and looked over at Leliana. “Apparently.”

“At least she’s enthusiastic,” Leliana said, as Trevelyan lept to her feet and threw herself back at her opponent. 

Cassandra sighed. “What do you think of her?”

“She is young, no doubt, only in her twenty-first year. As the youngest of her family, she should be in service to the Chantry by now.” Leliana crossed her arms and tilted her head as she continued her assessment. “But she is smart and quick, and already more than proficient with a bow. Still, she seems an unlikely choice to bear the mark of Andraste. I am beginning to wonder what exactly it is the Maker wants from us.”

Cassandra allowed herself a wry chuckle. “Indeed. He speaks in riddles at times.” 

Leliana let out a heavy sigh, and a dark look crossed her face. “That is too true. I wish we were privy to His plan. Does He wish more blood spilled? For us to die so that His will be done? The faithful were murdered where the holiest of holies once stood. If the Maker willed this, what is it if not a game or cruel joke?”

Cassandra clenched her jaw, fighting back a wave of grief. In the chaos after the explosion at the Conclave and the founding of the Inquisition, there had been precious little time to discuss Justinia’s loss, much less actually process the fact that she was truly gone. They had both dealt with it in their own ways; with Leliana retreating to solitude and meditation, and Cassandra seeking the nearest practice dummy. 

She heard the sorrow in Leliana’s voice for perhaps the first time since the Conclave, and she reached out to squeeze her shoulder, but quickly let it drop, feeling that the gesture would ring hollow. She swallowed hard. “I believe the Maker is just. Those responsible for the death of the Most Holy will be found. The Breach will be closed. And the Mark will guide us.” 

Leliana gave her a small, rueful smile. “I hope that you are right, Cassandra. But there is much work to be done. You truly believe she was sent by the Maker? That she can lead us all?”

Cassandra looked back towards the training yard. The Herald was still locked in combat with her partner, but Cassandra could see that his movements had slowed. Trevelyan ducked under his blade and easily parried his blows with her daggers. She feigned right, baiting the soldier into an attack, and when he lunged towards her, she quickly changed direction and aimed a kick at the side of his exposed knee. The soldier’s leg collapsed, and Trevelyan kicked again, sending him sprawling. She stood over him for a moment, chest heaving from the exertion of the exercise, then sheathed her blades. She reached down to help the soldier to his feet, clapping him on the upper arm in an acknowledgment of a well-fought bout. After the soldier nodded and walked away, the Herald looked in Cassandra’s direction, squinting in the morning sun, then offered a cheerful wave. 

The Seeker grimaced. 

“Perhaps.” 

*** 

Cassandra grunted as the spider flung itself against her shield. She heard a hiss and felt legs scrape at her boots. The smell of sulfur and rot permeated the small cave and was nearly suffocating. She pushed the arachnid off her with a yell, slamming it into the rock wall, then ran her sword through its exposed underbelly. Blood and ichor spilled onto her blade and the creature shrieked in pain. She yanked out her sword and stabbed at it again, almost slicing the spider in half. 

To her right, Iron Bull did just that, bringing his axe down on the midsection of his own opponent and cleaving the arachnid in two. The spider’s legs twitched spasmodically at his feet. “How you doin’ out there, boss?” he called out to the mouth of the cave.

“Just fine, thank you!” Trevelyan yelled back, keeping herself firmly rooted in place. 

“Oh, come on!” said Sera, who sounded as though she was enjoying herself far too much. “It’s just a couple of bugs.” She leapt on top of the nearest spider, digging her heels into its bulbous abdomen to steady herself, then gleefully plunged two daggers into its head. 

“Those. Are not. Bugs!” The Herald’s reply was punctuated by three quick shots from her bow, striking the last spider before it could advance on Cassandra. The spider shrieked then fell dead, three arrows buried dead center in one of its eyes. Cassandra cocked her head and let out a small noise of appreciation. She looked back at the cave entrance , then casually wiped her blade off on her glove and sheathed the sword. 

“Will you be joining us, Herald?” 

Trevelyan made a face like she was about to vomit, then took several tentative steps into the cave. She glanced around in obvious apprehension. Iron Bull groaned. 

“They’re all dead. See?” With one massive hand, he picked up the upper half of the spider he had bisected and wagged it at her. The hairy legs hung limp and flapped comically, as thick ichor ran down Bull’s arm and dripped steadily in front of him. Trevelyan yelped and began running through the cave, leaping over the scattered spider corpses. Both Bull and Sera erupted in laughter.

“It’s kinda cute, innit?” The elf jabbed at the spider’s eyes with her bow. “It just needs a friend!”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, but found herself suppressing a grin at the sight of Trevelyan’s retreating form. She set out after her companions, carefully stepping over rocks slathered with ichor and spider innards. She wondered how Trevelyan managed to make it through without slipping even once. Just as the thought crossed her mind, Trevelyan fell to her knees, collapsing into the soft grass outside the mouth of the cave. 

Concern gripped her immediately; it was unusual to see the graceful Herald fall so awkwardly, and Cassandra’s legs carried her to Trevelyan’s side before she even realized she had moved. Trevelyan was crouched down, her right hand gripping her left wrist as her palm was engulfed in green flame. Cassandra drew her sword and scanned the horizon. 

“There!”

The rolling hills stretched out in front of the party companions, a striking contrast to the dankness of the cave they had just traipsed through, and Cassandra spotted the green haze several yards away. The cries of demons and wraiths carried on the wind, as if they were being surrounded, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She hated that sound. 

“Go!” Trevelyan had pushed herself up to one knee, but was still grasping at her hand. “Go!’ she repeated, this time more forcefully, jerking her head in the direction of the rift. Bull and Sera each looked at each other, then began running towards the demons. Cassandra paused and slung aside her shield to reach down with a free hand to grab the Herald by the collar. 

Trevelyan shrugged off the Seeker’s arm, pushing her away with her left hand. Cassandra felt the heat of the mark through her armor, as the Herald’s palm pushed against her shoulder. She had almost forgotten the magic contained in the young woman before her. 

“I said go, Seeker!” 

Trevelyan hauled herself to her feet without another word, and with a grimace, unslung her bow and headed towards the rift. Cassandra charged ahead, but looked back over her shoulder when she heard a loud curse. Trevelyan tried to hold her bow with her left hand, as she usually did, but her fingers would not close around the grip. She switched hands, nocking an arrow with her left hand and drawing it back to her chin, grimacing as the flames licked her face. 

As if, despite all her previous reassurances to the contrary, the mark still hurt. 

***

Cassandra came awake suddenly, unsure of what roused her. She stretched out in her bedroll and stared at the top of the tent until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. After a moment she realized she was alone; the soft snore she had grown used to hearing on the other side of the tent was conspicuously absent. She looked over and saw Trevelyan’s bedroll was empty. She immediately crawled to the entrance and peered out. 

Trevelyan was sitting on a log in front of the campfire. She had stoked the flames back up and the light flickered across her face as she stared intently into her lap. It took Cassandra a moment to realize that Trevelyan was writing in a small leather-bound journal. 

The excursion party had been particularly busy in the Hinterlands that day: not only had they closed two additional rifts after encountering the giant spiders, but they had also established an additional camp, convinced a healer in Redcliffe to help the refugees overflowing the Crossroads, recruited two more agents for the Inquisition, and had located a lost ram with the absurd moniker “Lord Woolsley”. Trevelyan was apparently taking Cullen’s advice to grow the Inquisition's influence to heart and insisted on talking to nearly every person they encountered and agreeing to help with whatever problem they had, no matter how minor. By the time they had set back for camp, Sera could barely walk from exhaustion and had completed the trek perched on Bull’s shoulders, half-asleep. Cassandra herself had also gratefully fallen into her bedroll that evening, and expected the Herald to do the same. 

She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, watching Trevelyan, then poked her head out of the tent. 

“You should be resting.” 

Trevelyan jumped and almost dropped her book. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Cassandra hesitated, then rose to her feet and walked over the fire. Trevelyan glanced at out of the corner of her eye, then moved over to make room on the log. Cassandra reached her hands out towards the fire, palms open, warming them against the chill in the night air. She pursed her lips and eyed the young woman. She wasn’t exactly sure why she had even joined her, and now that she was sitting here, she had no idea what to say. Cassandra was never good at small talk, finding it mostly to be a useless exercise. She much preferred being direct.

“You are a writer?” she asked, pointing at the notebook. The journal had made several appearances since they started traveling, and Trevelyan had made it a point to jot notes in it nearly every day. Cassandra had never really thought to ask about it until now. 

“Oh, no, nothing so dramatic,” Trevelyan replied easily, and began wrapping the charcoal she had been taking notes with in a dark cloth. She carefully tucked the bundle in between the pages of the journal, then wrapped everything up with a strip of worn leather. “I just like to note interesting things throughout the day. Facts, really. I imagine there will be enough people talking about the Inquisition that the tales will soon outshine the truth. It’s good to have a record, I think.” She paused for a moment, then grinned. “Plus, I hate forgetting things.”

Cassandra chewed over what Trevelyan had said, pleasantly surprised at the degree of thoughtfulness she was exhibiting. “That is very well true. And with someone like Varric around, who knows how wild the fiction will be.” 

Trevelyan’s grin widened and she tossed her bangs out of her eyes. 

“I’m glad you agree, Seeker.”

“Anything particularly noteworthy today?”

“You mean aside from the fact that I hate spiders and Lord Woolsley is the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard?” Trevelyan chuckled in amusement and her eyes flashed, reflecting the light from the fire. “No.”

“I meant the rifts,” Cassandra said pointedly. 

“Ah.”

Trevelyan’s grin faded, and her features became more pensive and drawn. She looked away from Cassandra, focusing her attention on the fire. 

“I thought you said it no longer hurt,” Cassandra said, after a few moments. 

“It’s fine.” Trevelyan said. “It doesn’t hurt all the time, and Solas said there was nothing more to be done.”

“But perhaps - “

“I said it’s fine, Seeker.” Trevelyan cut her off. “I will deal with it.”

Her voice took on a weariness that Cassandra had never heard before, in direct contrast to the chipper demeanor she typically carried herself with. Surprisingly, Cassandra felt an immediate pang of sympathy. 

“It is still troubling, no doubt,” she said, making a deliberate effort to soften her tone. 

“You believe that I was chosen, don’t you?”

The question was direct, but not accusatory. Cassandra sat up straighter when she replied. “The Maker’s help takes many forms. It is often it is hard to discern who truly benefits, and how. But I think you were sent to help us. And I believe that you will.” She paused. “Do you believe you were chosen?”

Trevelyan sighed again, heavier this time, and the smile faded somewhat. Her brow furrowed in contemplation. “I believe in the power of words,” she said, hesitantly. “I believe that I was given a title that I never asked for, before I even knew what had happened, and that people believe in that title. There is more power in that, I think, then whatever is held in here.” She held out her gloved left hand, turning her palm skyward. “And that is what scares everyone. Especially the Chantry.” 

Cassandra cocked her head. Words did have power. She had learned that so many years ago, during her vigil, when she was empty of all things but the Chant of Light. Those words had fed her, sustained her, until the dawn had broken and filled her with light. Even now, they still provided solace and strength, the physical manifestations of her faith realized. 

“I think you may be right,” she said softly.

“Words. Everything begins and ends with words.” Trevelyan’s mouth twisted slightly, and her smile turned into a wry grin. “My father told me that.” 

The statement struck Cassandra as being particularly astute. 

“Your father sounds like an interesting man.” 

“He is. Well - was, I suppose.” 

“He has passed on, then? I am sorry to hear that.” 

Trevelyan’s smile vanished completely, a dark look crossing her face. Her mouth set into a grim line and she was silent for a long moment before replying. 

“No, he’s still alive. But his mind is not what it once was. When I left for the Conclave he could barely remember my name.”

Cassandra pursed her lips. “Oh,” was all she could think of to say. 

Trevelyan picked up a stick that had been lying at her feet and began poking at the fire. “It’s been going on for a while now, but he started getting worse this past year,” she continued. “My older brother pretty much runs the estate now, which mostly consists of defending it from scheming relatives. Or so I’m told.”

A familiar ire rose up at the mention of relatives, and Cassandra made a face. “Yes, I am sure it’s a full time occupation.”

“We’re no Pentaghasts, that’s for sure, but as long as there’s been Free Marchers, there’s been Trevelyans bitching over titles and land rights.” Trevelyan shot her a grin, sparks rising from the fire as she jabbed at the coals. “That’s part of the reason I was sent to the Conclave, actually. My older brother insisted that I take up my proper station in the family and assist the delegation that was sent. And then I’d enter service to the Chantry, whether I liked it or not. With my father...incapacitated, there was no one to say otherwise.”

Cassandra leaned her elbow on her knee and rested her chin in the palm of her hand, gazing at Trevelyan’s profile. “Do you only have one brother?” Cassandra was surprised how genuinely curious she was about the Herald. She supposed she could have just asked Leilana, who had amassed a frightening amount of information on her, but found that she much preferred directly hearing it from Trevelyan herself. She liked the easy, open manner in which the younger woman spoke. 

“I have two, both older,” Trevelyan said. “Robb runs the estate, with his wife. Bradyn’s a Templar, assigned to the Ostwick Circle.”

“Your mother?”

“She died soon after giving birth to me. Something Robb was always fond of reminding me.” Trevelyan tossed the stick into the fire and pushed her bangs back from her face. “He’s a bit of a twit. I think he’s just jealous that I’m better with a bow than he is.”

“I imagine most people would be jealous. You’re quite skilled.” 

Trevelyan ducked her head shyly, seemingly taken aback by the compliment. “You flatter me.”

“I most certainly do not.” Cassandra arched a brow. “I merely speak the truth.”

“Very well, Seeker.” Trevelyan’s eyes sparked with amusement, illuminated by the campfire. “And what about you? Family?” 

“My parents had the misfortune of taking the wrong side in the second attempt to overthrow King Markus. They were executed when I was a small child. The king spared my brother and I, and we were sent to live with my uncle.” 

“An uncle who no doubt had many expectations of you, all of which you disagreed vehemently with.” 

“How did you know?” she asked with a small chuckle. 

“Just a wild guess. Was your brother also as rebellious as you?”

Cassandra stiffened. Invariably, the conversation had veered to the one topic she never spoke about. While time had erased whatever sting she felt at her parent’s death, the loss of her brother was a wound that had never healed. Privately, she doubted it ever would. 

“I would prefer not to discuss Anthony.” 

Trevelyan’s smile faltered. “Of course. I apologize.” 

“No need. I know you meant no offense.” 

Silence fell between them, and at first Cassandra wondered if she had succeeded in grounding yet another conversation to a halt with her middling social skills, but then she realized the silence wasn’t at all uncomfortable as she had expected. They kept their respective gazes trained on the fire before them, watching the logs crackle and burn down to coals. 

“You know,” Trevelyan finally said. “You’re not nearly as fearsome as I expected.” 

Cassandra turned her head and frowned, unsure whether to be insulted or not. 

“Oh?” 

“Yes. I find you quite delightful, actually.” 

She was definitely being insulted. 

“Excuse me? There is nothing ‘delightful’ about me in the slightest!”

“I beg to differ,” Trevelyan said with an easy shrug, apparently immune to her ire. Cassandra’s eyes narrowed as she was met with the same maddening grin. 

“I think I preferred you in the stocks.”

Trevelyan’s grin only widened at her reply. 

“Like I said. Delightful.”


	2. Coming Out Of The Dark

“You did what?” Cullen’s jaw fell open and he immediately began pacing around the war table, running his hands through his thick hair. “Maker’s breath...” 

Trevelyan stood firm in front of the war table with her hands clasped behind her back. If she was at all nervous or unsettled by having to account for her actions with all her advisers present, she gave no indication. Cassandra felt a stab of approval as the Herald drew herself up to full height to face Cullen. Even though she was a head shorter than her commander, it still had the effect of making her seem taller. 

“This was your idea. You wanted the Templars, and now you have them.” She fixed him with a glare. 

“Even so, this was a decision that should have been made by the Inquisition, not yours alone!” He stopped and looked at Cassandra. “I can’t believe you went along with this.”

Cassandra stood off to the side, quietly watching the exchange, her hands crossed and resting on the pommel of her sword. She looked at Cullen, her face stoic. “They were taking red lyrium, and the Knight Commander was possessed by an envy demon. It may not have been ideal, but a decision had to be made.” She made a face at the mention of the red lyrium; just being around the corrupted mineral had given her a headache and put a foul taste in her mouth that she had been unable to cleanse. 

Cullen sighed and dropped his arms to his side, and Cassandra felt a pang of sympathy for him. Every word he had said was true. The decimation of the centuries old Order was unthinkable, but the events of the past few weeks had proven to her that nothing was as she thought. It appeared the former Templar was also beginning to realize the same. 

“I would have preferred for them to join the Inquisition as allies,” Josephine interjected. She seemed to glide as she moved out from behind the war table, impossibly scribbling notes onto her parchment without even pausing in mid-walk. “But surely we must trust our Herald's decisions, no?” A fleeting smile crossed her face when she looked at Trevelyan. Cassandra’s fingers twitched over her sword. 

“A few dozen veterans are coming ahead of the main group, to help with sealing the Breach,” Leliana said, changing the subject and ending any further argument. “We must prepare for their arrival.”

“They’ll need lyrium, too,” Trevelyan said, turning to look at Cassandra for confirmation. “Right?” 

Cassandra inclined her chin and glanced quickly at Cullen. Before she could reply there was a sudden flash of lightning, and a cloud of smoke appeared over the war table. Cassandra let out a yell and in one smooth motion, drew her sword and grabbed Trevelyan by the collar. She yanked the Herald back away from the table, before advancing on the figure that was now sitting directly on Cullen’s maps. The new arrival was nothing more than a boy, with shaggy blond hair and rags for clothes, wearing a hat far too big for his head. 

“They’re nearly here,” said the boy. “Templars hate being late.” 

Cassandra snarled and leveled the point of her sword at the intruder’s head. She had no idea who he was or where he came from, and frankly, she could not have cared less. Cullen had drawn his own weapon just as quickly as the Seeker, and his sword was pointed it the boy from the other side of the table. 

“Wait!” Trevelyan darted forward and placed herself between Cassandra’s blade and the intended target. Cassandra pulled back with frustrated hiss, nearly grazing Trevelyan's exposed neck. 

“I came with you to help,” the boy said, looking at Trevelyan. “I would have told you before, but you were busy.”

“It’s okay, Cole. You just startled us appearing out of thin air like that.” Trevelyan held up her hands, appealing to Cassandra. “Please, Seeker, it’s alright. He helped me at Thereinfal.”

“I wasn’t air, I was here,” Cole said, matter-of-factly. “You just didn’t see me. Most people don’t unless I let them.”

“That does not make me feel better.” Cassandra glowered. She edged closer to Cole, placing the Herald behind her again. “Call the guards.”

“Just a moment, Cassandra,” Leliana said. “I would like to hear why he came.” 

Cassandra ground her teeth, her hand tightening around her sword. Sometimes Leliana was far too patient for her liking. 

“You help people.” Cole tried to peek out from under his head to look at Trevelyan as he spoke, but the brim was so comically large most of his face remained obscured. In any other moment, it probably would have been amusing. “You made them safe when they would have died. I want to do that. I can help.”

“How would you help, Cole?” Trevelyan pulled at Cassandra’s shoulder. The Seeker took half a step back, but no more, and kept her sword directly at Cole’s throat. She caught Cullen’s eye on the other side of the war table and he nodded. 

“The hole in the sky is too loud for spirits to think. It’s pulling, pushing out pain. I want to stop it.”

“How altruistic of you,” Cassandra said dryly. 

“I want to help!” Cole grew more passionate, waving his hands as he spoke. “I can be hard to see. I can kill things that would hurt people. I won’t get in the way.”

Trevelyan’s hand was still on Cassandra’s shoulder, and she tugged more insistently this time, turning the Seeker away from Cole. “He saved my life. I couldn’t have defeated Envy without him.” 

Cassandra looked away from Cole and into Trevelyan’s eyes. The Herald was giving her the same glare she had favored Cullen with just a moment before. 

“But what does he want now?’ she asked, returning Trevelyan’s look just as fiercely. 

“I think he really does want to help.”

“I won’t get in the way . No trouble. You’ll see,” Cole said. 

“You can’t seriously be considering giving him the run of the camp.” It was clear from his voice that Cullen had reached peak exasperation. Trevelyan gave him a look and he sighed. 

Josephine, ever the diplomat, made another attempt at smoothing things over. “Maybe not the full camp, but perhaps - wait, where did he go?” 

The war table was now empty. 

“It’s a good trick. You’ll get used to it,” Trevelyan said, completely unperturbed. Cassandra muttered to herself and sheathed her sword. Leliana arched a brow. 

“We’ll have to see if he can teach it to anyone else.” She favored Trevelyan with a half smile. “I’ll have people watch the boy. But let’s not get distracted from the Breach.” 

Trevelyan nodded. “Understood,” she said, then waved a hand, silently adjourning the meeting. The advisers filed out without protest, save for Cullen’s continued grumbling. Cassandra was last in line, and was just about to follow Josephine out of the room when she paused. Instead of leaving, she closed the door after the ambassador and turned back to Trevelyan. She was leaning against the war table with her arms crossed and was pinching the bridge of her nose. Her shoulders sagged. 

“Herald?” 

“Yes?” Immediately, Trevelyan snapped to attention, raising her head to look at Cassandra. For the first time since they had returned to Haven, Cassandra really considered the other woman before her. Despite the attempts to hide it, exhaustion was evident. Trevelyan's usually warm features were drawn and pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Cassandra frowned. 

“You should be careful with this...Cole,” she said, walking back toward the war table. She glanced around, half-expecting the spirit to appear again. 

“Of course.” Trevelyan scrubbed the back of her neck. “I do trust him, though. He didn’t have to help me. If he hadn’t been there, I…” She trailed off and her gaze drifted to the window. 

The sound of Cassandra’s boots striking the stone floor echoed through the room as she approached the war table. She stopped right in front of Trevelyan, but the other woman didn’t react. Cassandra was struck by the sudden urge to reach out and touch her, but she kept her hands firmly clasped behind her back. 

“Are you alright?” The Seeker asked. 

Trevelyan’s eyes flicked over to Cassandra, but then returned to the window. “It’s just...I’ve never imagined ever seeing something like that.” She sighed and ran her hand through her hair, just as Cullen had done earlier, but unlike the commander’s perfectly coiffed mane, unruly bangs fell into her face and eyes. Her shoulders slumped again. 

“Yes, Envy demons are rare. And powerful.” Cassandra’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “But they are also cowardly.” 

Trevelyan nodded and looked down at the floor, kicking at a phantom piece of debris at her feet. Cassandra took a step forward, her concern rising in spite of herself. “Did you see something? When Envy pulled you into the Fade?’

Trevelyan nodded again. 

“What was it?”

“I’d rather not say.” Trevelyan finally looked at her, and drew herself back up, straightening her shoulders and clasping her hands behind her, mimicking Cassandra’s pose. Her cool grey eyes were clear and focused. 

Cassandra just nodded, appreciating the Herald’s obvious effort at reigning in her emotions. “Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I also wanted to say that you have done well.”

“Really?” Trevelyan brow furrowed and she cocked her head. “I admit, I didn’t expect to hear that from you.” 

“No? And why not?”

Trevelyan shrugged. “I just assumed you wouldn’t approve of conscripting the Templars like that.” 

“While it was not what I would have chosen, something needed to be done. You were thinking on your feet.” Cassandra paused. “It was commendable.”

Trevelyan eyed her for a moment, as if she didn't quite believe what Cassandra was saying, then gave her a small, wry smile. “Flatterer.”

Cassandra huffed and put her hands on her hips. “I am not! This always happens to me. Why do you not take my meaning?” 

Trevelyan didn’t reply right away. Instead, the smile slowly grew until it threatened to split her face in half. “You should see yourself.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. How could the Herald veer so quickly from solemnity to frivolousness? And why was she always smiling at her like that? 

“You know, you are not nearly as charming as you think you are.” 

“So you do think I’m charming?”

“Ugh.” 

Cassandra turned and began walking away, waving a dismissive hand. “You need rest. I suggest you get some.” She marched towards the door, feeling Trevelyan's eyes on her the entire way. She resisted the urge to look back. 

***

Cassandra crouched down in the snow, peering out into the darkness. The wind whipped at her face, stinging her cheeks, but she ignored it. She frowned and narrowed her eyes, straining to see any signs of movement through the near white-out conditions. 

“Cassandra. There is nothing more than can be done tonight.” 

The Seeker turned her head, but only slightly, careful to avoid looking at the fires of the camp and ruin her night vision. She hadn’t heard Leliana approach, but even if the snow hadn’t muffled her footsteps, it still wouldn’t have surprised her. Cassandra had never met someone that moved as silently as the former bard. 

Frustration burned in her chest, and she stood to begin pacing. Her fingers twitched as they brushed over the pommel of her sword. She was not accustomed to doing nothing. “There are still a few stragglers. They will require aid.”

“And Cullen’s soldiers are on watch at all corners of the camp. They will notify us immediately if anyone else arrives.” Leliana’s voice was level and calm, although Cassandra thought she detected a hint of resignation. She snorted but didn’t respond. The wind began to kick up again, fierce gusts cutting straight through her armor and leathers. She put a hand up to shield her face and turned away, expecting to find Leliana still standing next to her. Instead, all she saw were footprints in the drifts, and again she was alone. 

She continued pacing, shaking off the cold, staring into the dense blackness surrounding the makeshift camp. They had been lucky to save as many as they did, she realized, but the thought offered no comfort while the Herald was still missing. 

Trevelyan wasn’t dead, that much she was certain of. She refused to hear otherwise, and had deliberately left when the whispers of the Herald’s demise amongst the survivors had become too much. At least at the very edge of the camp, she could keep the thick despair at bay and push those thoughts out of her mind. 

Instead, she remembered the attack on Haven: how Trevelyan had calmly directed her companions to defend the gate and personally helped arm the trebuchets. How her bow sang as arrow after arrow found their mark, often just right over Cassandra’s shoulder. And how she had immediately and without question told Cullen to evacuate the town along the secret path, and set out to face the Elder One alone, buying them all time to escape. 

It was, perhaps, one of the bravest displays she had ever witnessed. And in the chaos, Cassandra have never been more sure that Trevelyan had truly been chosen by the prophet Andraste. She was confident that the Maker would not be so cruel as to take their Herald from them now. She recalled what she had said to Trevelyan earlier, and still took faith from those words. The Maker had a plan, he always did, even when she could not see it. But, unfortunately, as her anger and frustration rose, she was finding it difficult to find solace at the moment. 

A distance noise caught her attention; her ears pricked up and she stopped moving. Wolves howled into the night, their voices carried by the wind. She waited for a moment, breathless, then the howls came again, closer this time. The pack was circling the camp, no doubt drawn by the smell of fresh wounds and blood. The fires would keep them at bay, but any survivors from Haven trekking across the mountainside would almost certainly be attacked. 

Cassandra’s jaw twitched and she immediately set off into the blizzard. There was a larger perimeter established some two dozen yards around the camp, but they had abandoned those posts when the weather worsened, instead drawing back to the relative safety of the small valley. She could make it to at least one or two of the stations and relight the fires, hopefully keeping the wolves farther away. 

Unless, of course, they were possessed like the pack near Redcliffe Farms.

The coals were still warm at the nearest fire, and she quickly brushed the snow off the logs and restacked them. Cassandra reached into her belt to retrieve her flint and cotton tinder, fighting the growing numbness in her fingertips. She hunched over the pit, rounding her broad shoulders as best she could to block the wind. The howling grew closer with every strike of her flint, and she matched the pack’s noise with a low, frustrated growl of her own. 

Suddenly, the noise stopped and the hairs pricked up on the back of Cassandra’s neck. She looked up and saw two sets of red eyes staring at her through the driving snow. Over her shoulder, she heard whining, then a snarl. She turned her head. Two more wolves were advancing on her from the rear. 

The Seeker rose to her feet, drawing her sword and circling the wolves in front of her. She inhaled once, very deeply, and as she breathed out through her mouth, time began to slow. The moment stretched out before her as her focus sharpened. The sound of the wind was no longer in her ears, nor did she feel the cold. All she felt was the slow beating of her own heart, the ragged breathing and the stench of death from the wolves, and the soft pads of their feet in the snow. Her lip curled back, baring her own teeth at the animals. 

The attack came from behind, as she expected. She felt the wolf launch itself at her, trying to knock her down, and she ducked and leaned into it, and the animal bounced off the armored plate of her shoulder. Cassandra spun and her sword sliced through the air, cutting the wolf’s throat before it could recover. Blood sprayed across the snow at her feet.

The three remaining wolves moved around her, snarling viciously while staying just out of range of her sword. Cassandra darted forward, feigning a lunge at the nearest one. It leapt back and yelped, but as it did so, the largest of them ran in and latched its jaws around Cassandra’s left forearm. She gritted her teeth, twisting her hand just enough to grab the side of the wolf’s neck, driving it straight down into the snow with its jaws still fastened to her arm. In the same motion she brought her sword around and dropped to one knee, putting her weight behind the stroke as she ran through the animal’s chest. She wrenched her arm free just as the last two attacked, one aiming for her exposed throat, the other for her right thigh. Still on one knee, she swung her sword across her body and then downward, ripping through the first wolf’s jaw and then slicing clean through the second’s neck. Both corpses dropped in front of her, steam rising from the wounds. The stench was nearly overwhelming. Cassandra stood and wiped her blade, then spat at the ground. 

She returned to the fire and almost had it lit when she saw a flash of green in the distance. For a moment, she thought another Fade rift had opened, but she realized the light was too small. It was flickering and moving up and down spastically, as if someone was trying to trudge through the snow with a torch. Her heart leapt and she took off at a near run, plowing heedlessly through drifts that were almost to her thighs. Cassandra reached the Herald just as she collapsed, and she slid on her knees to catch the other woman before she fell face first into the snow. 

“Thank the Maker,” Cassandra breathed, flooded with relief. Trevelyan clutched at Cassandra’s shoulders and the Seeker felt a jolt as the energy from the mark shot down her spine. In the green light, Cassandra could see that the Herald’s face was bloodied and bruised, one eye almost swollen completely shut. She was missing her bow and quiver, and only had a dagger at her side. She trembled violently in Cassandra’s arms and her whole body convulsed as she let out a dry, hacking cough. Despite her state, she somehow managed a weak smile. 

“Did you see the size of that dragon?”

Cassandra was too relieved to be aggravated, and could only shake her head. “Yes, I did. Come, we must get you into the camp.” She lifted Trevelyan to her feet, wrapping an arm around the Herald’s waist and grabbing her dagger belt at the same time. Trevelyan slung her right arm over Cassandra’s neck and gratefully leaned into the taller woman, keeping her left hand tucked into her chest. She hissed with every step they took and Cassandra wondered if she had injured her ribs. 

“Aren’t you people dragon hunters?” Trevelyan’s voice was heavy and her words were slurred. It was an absurd question, and Cassandra thought perhaps she was delirious from the cold. “Next time, you can fight the dragon.” Trevelyan’s head lolled back and forth, her entire demeanor suggesting she was dangerously close to passing out. 

Cassandra rolled her eyes at the dragon-fighting comment, but knew she needed to keep the other woman conscious. “That was my brother, not me. And perhaps next time you won’t run off like a maniac when we encounter one, hmm?” She adjusted her grip and straightened to her full height, hauling Trevelyan up so her feet were barely grazing the snow. 

“Just trying to impress you,” Trevelyan muttered. 

“Impress me? I would not be impressed if you got yourself killed.” Cassandra felt a sudden burst of warmth in her chest that momentarily drove out the cold. “But it was quite brave,” she conceded, saying it more to herself than the other woman. Trevelyan didn’t answer, instead just tightening her arm around Cassandra’s neck and hugging her closer. 

The camp was close now, and Cassandra could see the guard Cullen had posted at the entrance of the ravine. She waved a hand and yelled to get his attention, bellowing into the strong wind. The guard jumped and yelled back to the camp, then began clambering towards them. Trevelyan sagged against her, barely able to move. 

“...never told me…’bout him…” 

Trevelyan’s grip loosened from Cassandra’s neck and she slumped forward. Cassandra kept them both upright, grabbing Trevelyan even tighter and refusing to let her fall into the snow. She watched as the guard and two other people approached. 

“Perhaps I shall. One day.” 

***

“Enough! This is getting us nowhere!”

“Well, we agree on that much!”

Cassandra snorted in disgust and stalked away, turning her back on Cullen and the rest of the advisers. They had been arguing for hours and the only thing Cassandra had gained was a throbbing headache and the intense urge to punch something. She stopped by the makeshift war table that had been hastily set up in a nearby tent, then pounded both fists into the thick wood and was immediately rewarded by a satisfying crack. She glowered at the tattered remnants of the Inquisition's area map, but found no answers. The only thing obvious to everyone was the dire straights they were in, and the distinct lack of a clear plan going forward. 

She glanced up and caught the gaze of the figure sitting on a cot in the tent across the camp. Despite the reappearance of the Herald, the mood in the camp was still grim. Thankfully, Trevelyan’s injuries weren’t as severe as originally thought, but she had been immediately banished to her cot and ordered to rest, despite her protestations. She had watched her advisers bicker, perhaps a little too publically, never taking her eyes off Cassandra as she prowled about the camp. Somehow, Trevelyan’s attention only made Cassandra feel worse. 

The intense gaze was broken when the Revered Mother, sitting next to Trevelyan, said something to draw her attention. Trevelyan listened intently, nodding at whatever she was being told. Cassandra tensed when she spied a dark figure lingering in the shadows behind the tent, just outside Trevelayn’s view. Her hand automatically went to her sword, but she relaxed when she saw Solas emerge from the dark and bend down to speak to the Herald. Trevelyan excused herself, bowing her head respectfully at the Revered Mother, then followed the elf out of the tent. 

Cassandra watched as Trevelyan disappeared with Solas, then let out a heavy sigh. She was a failure, a fool. She had declared the Inquisition without a second thought, brashly plowing ahead with no real notion of how to achieve their goals. They had succeeded in closing the Breach, true, but that had resulted in the emergence of an even bigger threat, the destruction of Haven, and the deaths of dozens of innocent people. People that the Inquisition had promised to protect. 

Her thoughts turned to Corypheus and his attack, and his claims of not only being a Tevinter magister, but one of the Magisters Sidereal - responsible for the Second Sin that blackened the Golden City and caused the First Blight. Cassandra could not fathom the amount of hubris it would take to actually enter the Fade and seek out the throne of heaven, and all mankind continued to suffer because of those magisters’ pride and desire. All the more reason to believe that Andraste would have sent someone to rise against him. But with all that had been lost, how could they possibly stand to fight against such a monster now? 

She didn’t know how long she had been standing there, staring at the map with unseeing eyes, when the sound of a voice floated over the camp. It was low at first, hesitant, but then grew in power. Throughout the encampment, people who had spent the past hours in dejection and despair now rose and joined together in song. Even the injured, struggling to remain on their feet, added to the chorus. Cassandra knew the hymn, of course; it was one of the oldest in the Chantry, and one of the first she ever learned as a child. She remained silent, however, as Mother Giselle continued to lead the hymn. 

She felt the wind shift beside her, almost a light breeze, and she turned to find Trevelyan standing next to her, flanked by Solas. The Herald stood with her back ramrod straight, her hands clasped behind her back, quietly listening to the chorus of voices. Cassandra’s eyes widened as everyone began to gather around and dropped to their knees, as the song crescendoed into one last, hopeful verse. In spite of herself, she felt her own spirits begin to lift. 

When the song was finished, the mood in the camp was noticeably buoyed, even as all eyes were on the Herald expectedly. If she was unnerved by the attention or the display, she made no indication of it. Instead, she just looked at Cassandra.

“I know where we can go.” 

***

Cassandra leaned against the outer wall of the battlements, gazing out over the bridge that lead into the fortress of Skyhold. She watched as the figures walking toward the main gate gradually came closer. Trevelyan had formed the hunting party almost immediately upon their arrival, barely giving herself a moment’s rest before setting out again. The group of five were returning now just before dusk, the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone causeway. 

She met them at the gate just as they passed through and the heavy drawbridge closed behind them. Trevelyan and one of Cullen’s soldiers were pulling a sled loaded with three mountain goat carcasses, already field dressed and ready to be butchered. Next to the Herald walked a young boy, not more than ten, that Cassandra recognized as Harritt’s son. He was gazing up at Trevelyan in obvious adoration, nodding eagerly as she spoke to him, her free hand resting on the boy’s shoulder. He was clutching his own small bow with both hands. 

“A successful venture, I see.” Cassandra said, clasping her hands behind her back and inclining her chin. 

Trevelyan greeted her with the usual broad, crooked smile, but then cleared her throat and reset her features, aware that they both had an audience. “Indeed, Seeker. It’s not much, but will give us a start. There are several herds just over the nearest pass, so I expect this area to be quite fruitful.” She looked down at the boy at her side. “Sam here got the last one, didn’t you?”

Sam didn’t respond, instead staring up at the Seeker with wide, terror-filled eyes. Cassandra arched a brow. 

“That must have been a fine shot, young man,” she said stiffly, attempting what she hoped was a reassuring look. 

The boy’s eyes grew even wider. 

Trevelyan chuckled and patted the back of Sam’s head, ruffling the wild blond hair. “The Seeker won’t bite. Now go make sure the butcher saves her a choice cut, okay? She only gets mean if she’s hungry.” She gave him a gentle push towards the kitchen. Sam cast one more fearful look at Cassandra, then dashed off as fast as his little legs could carry him. Trevelyan laughed again.

“I do not get ‘mean’ when I’m hungry,” Cassandra protested. “And I prefer venison.” 

Trevelyan bowed her head and made a sweeping gesture with her arm. “I do not wish to test my theory, Seeker. You shall have venison at your request.” 

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “If you’re quite done, I need to speak with you.” 

Trevelyan snapped back up, her demeanor immediately serious once again. “Of course.” 

Cassandra nodded and began walking towards the bustling main courtyard, Trevelyan easily falling into step beside her. She lead them past the refugees setting up tents, the injured receiving treatment, and the soldiers running training drills and delivering supplies. Everyone stopped their particular tasks to watch the Herald and the Seeker walk by. Soon, almost every set of eyes in the fortress were upon the two women. 

“These people are coming from all over. Skyhold has become a pilgrimage,” Cassandra began, thankful that she been given time to think about what she was going to say after the advisers had made the decision. Usually she hated the stiff theatrics that went along with ceremonies such as these, but this time it didn’t bother her quite so much. She waved a hand at the surrounding activity, her voice growing more confident as they walked. “If word has reached that far, then it has certainly reached the Elder One. We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here, but this threat is far beyond what we could have anticipated.”

Trevelyan frowned, but remained silent as Cassandra lead them up the thick stone stairs that lead to Skyhold’s main hall. Cassandra stopped and turned. “But we now know what drew Corypheus to you and how you were able to stand against him.”

Trevelyan’s frown deepened and, as if on instinct, she flexed her left hand. “The Anchor.” 

Cassandra nodded. “Yes, the Anchor has power. But it’s not why you’re still standing here. Your decisions let us heal the sky, your determination brought us out of Haven. You are the creature’s rival because of what you did. And we know it. All of us.” 

The Seeker lead Trevelyan further up the steps to the landing overlooking the courtyard. Leliana stood there stoically, offering up a sword with both hands. Cassandra walked over and took up position near the spymaster. “The Inquisition needs a leader. The one who has already been leading it.” 

Trevelyan stopped dead in her tracks, the grey eyes flicking from the sword to Leliana’s face and then back again. A rumble began to echo off ancient stone as a crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs, eagerly looking up at the ceremony above.

“This should be yours,” Trevelyan said with a hiss, keeping her voice low. She looked at Cassandra and the Seeker shook her head. 

“No. It’s you. It’s always been you.” 

A small, wan smile tugged at her mouth. Months ago, Cassandra could not have imagined saying those words, and if someone had even suggested that the wayward, flippant young woman she had met after the Conclave would grow so quickly into such a promising leader, she would have laughed in their face. And if they had suggested that not only would Trevelyan be leading them all, but that Cassandra would follow willingly, she would have punctuated that laugh with her fist. 

Trevelyan chewed her bottom lip, her gaze coming to rest on the sword. “You honestly have that much confidence in me?”

“I’ll admit, giving this power to anyone is troubling. But I believe it was meant to be.” Cassandra stepped forward and placed a hand on Trevelyan’s shoulder. She lowered her head to speak in the Herald’s ear. “There would be no Inquisition without you. How it will serve, how you will lead - that is for you to decide.” 

A single ray of sunlight cut across the landing and caught Trevelyan’s eyes just as she turned her head. The grey eyes turned a sparkling blue in the light, reflecting the glint off the freshly sharpened blade being offered. Cassandra saw the apprehension melt away, turning instead into hard resolve. Trevelyan set her jaw, then stepped out from underneath Cassandra’s hand and grasped the handle of the sword. She hefted it gingerly, almost reverently, testing the weight in her hand before slowly turning to address the growing crowd. 

“Corypheus will not rest until I am dead. Until we are all dead. He means to be a God, and destroy all that we hold dear.” Her voice was clear and strong, resonating over the crowd. “We will not stop until he is defeated. We will restore order to Thedas. And we will fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. Bare your blades and raise them high, Inquisition, for the dawn will come!” 

She thrust the blade skyward, towards the sun, and the light reflected off the hilt so brightly it looked as if it caught fire. The courtyard erupted, punctuated by Cullen’s roaring announcement of the Inquisitor. Cassandra and Leliana walked to the edge of the landing, assuming their familiar positions at the right and left of Trevelyan. Cassandra looked out over Skyhold, the cheers ringing in her ears so loud she was sure they were heard all across the Frostbacks. The right corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly, betraying the hint of a smile. She caught Leliana's gaze out of the corner of her eye, and the spymaster winked.


	3. How Will I Know

“Can I ask them to stop calling me ‘Your Worship’?”

“No.”

Cassandra ignored the small, frustrated grumble that came in response, instead keeping her attention on the book resting in her lap. She was curled up on the small bench in her quarters over the forge, her legs tucked underneath her. The protest had originated from the other side of her room, where Trevelyan was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall near the Seeker’s bedroll and, presumably, lamenting her new title. She heard another grumble, louder this time, and finally she raised her head. 

“It is an honorific that befits both your position as Inquisitor and your noble house,” Cassandra said firmly, yet not without kindness. It was a not a new topic of conversation, and one that she suspected they would continue to return to. Something about that particular title gnawed at Trevelyan. Cassandra did agree that was perhaps a bit much, but she still needed to remind the younger woman that there was nothing to be done. 

Trevelyan wasn’t looking at her. Instead, she remained focused on the small journal propped up against her knee, which she had been writing in for the better part of the past hour. A dark look crossed her face at Cassandra’s reply and she let out a sigh, but didn’t say anything further. 

Cassandra arched a brow, then returned to her book and slowly turned a page. “At least they’ve stopped asking if you glow.”

“No, they still ask me that.” 

Cassandra snorted and glanced up in time to catch the grin Trevelyan flashed in her direction, then just shook her head and continued to read. 

The visits had begun soon after they resettled in Skyhold. The newly-minted Inquisitor had announced her presence by waving two bottles of ale over the staircase landing, one in each hand. How she had managed to find the unspoiled beverages so soon Cassandra never found out, even though that night they had stayed up talking until almost sunrise. Trevelyan started visiting the forge regularly after that. Although Cassandra was initially taken aback by the Inquisitor’s interest she found herself welcoming their conversations, even looking forward to them as the day would come to a close. 

Trevelyan proved she was still as voracious and curious student as ever. As the Inquisition rebuilt, its leader was determined to learn as much as she could, which Cassandra was more than happy to oblige. She directed Trevelyan toward as many history books as she could find in the library, and indulged her questions about the Templar Order, the structure of the Circles, and the College of Enchanters. She spoke of her time in Orlais and her work as the Right Hand. She even gave what insight she could into the inner workings of the Chantry and the complex issues that the new Divine would face. Each answer was duly noted in Trevelyan’s journal and then followed up on, drilling down on each topic until the entirety of the Seeker’s knowledge had been wrung out. Cassandra had never talked so much in her life. Nor had she ever experienced such an attentive audience. It was exhausting and exhilarating all at once, much like the Inquisitor herself. 

Eventually, they veered into more personal topics. That was when the journal was put away and Trevelyan’s frenetic pace of conversation slowed. They spoke of their respective childhoods, commiserating on the difficulties of familial expectations, although Trevelyan generally had warm feelings toward her upbringing in Ostwick. Cassandra couldn’t help but be entertained by the tales of numerous formal dinners ruined by the adolescent Inquisitor and her two equally energetic brothers, or exaggerated stories of hunting prowess the siblings used to tell. And although Cassandra could see she was curious, Trevelyan never asked about Anthony. Instead she just listened quietly, almost reverently, when the Seeker spoke of joining the Order and undergoing her vigil in the Blasted Hills. 

Cassandra’s attention wandered. She looked up from her book and found her gaze settling on the Inquisitor, who was still scribbling away. Although her brow slightly furrowed as she worked, she looked at peace. The rest of her features were relaxed and her shoulders rolled forward, free of any tension. Despite her initial (and understandable) apprehension, Trevelyan had grown into her role surprisingly quickly. Cassandra could see why people from all over Thedas were being drawn to Skyhold. 

Trevelyan was a magnetic presence to be sure, but she also treated everyone fairly and with kindness, and was naturally at ease with all those she encountered. It was a gift that Cassandra most definitely did not share. The Inquisitor was as comfortable drinking and carousing with Iron Bull and his mercenaries as she was discussing nobles lineages with Josephine or arguing over fabric swatches with Vivienne. She even tolerated Solas’s droning soliloquies about the Fade. But even as she good-naturedly indulged her companions, there was still an element of performance to what she was doing. It wasn’t insincere, Cassandra knew, but just that Trevelyan was aware of her role at all times and responded accordingly. Despite her natural exuberance, it must be exhausting. Everyone was asking something of her. 

Trevelyan closed her journal and performed her usual ritual of tucking her charcoal away and tying it all together in a tight bundle, then securing it in the chest pocket of her scout coat. She looked up at Cassandra, and gestured at the volume in the Seeker’s lap. 

“More poetry?” 

Cassandra arched a brow. That was another admission that Trevelyan had pried out of her. 

“Yes.”

“Well, go on, then.” 

The look Cassandra received was encouraging, gentle even, so she acquiesced and flipped back to an earlier selection. She cleared her throat and began to read. 

_Old warder of these buried bones,_   
_And answering now my random stroke_   
_With fruitful cloud and living smoke,_   
_Dark yew, that graspest at the stones_   
_And dippest toward the dreamless head,_   
_To thee too comes the golden hour_   
_When flower is feeling after flower;_   
_But Sorrow--fixt upon the dead_   
_And darkening the dark graves of men,--_   
_What whisper'd from her lying lips?_   
_Thy gloom is kindled at the tips,_   
_And passes into gloom again._

Trevelyan had crossed her ankles and hugged her knees in close, clasping her left wrist with her right hand. A thoughtful look crossed her face as Cassandra finished. “That’s an interesting choice.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes, for someone who was raised by a mortalitasi and hated living in a necropolis.”

“I do not take issue with death. It is part of the natural order of things. I just don’t believe it should be celebrated at the expense of life.” Cassandra closed her book and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Did I ever tell you that my uncle kept a corpse in the foyer? He anointed it with oil and read to it every night, like a child.”

Trevelyan’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.” 

Cassandra chuckled to herself. “Not quite.”

Trevelyan gave her an easy grin, then dropped her gaze to scan the books piled near Cassandra’s bedroll. “What’s this one?” she asked, holding up a well-read volume, with dog-eared pages and a cracked spine. 

Cassandra bolted to her feet. Her poetry book fell off her lap and struck the floor with a resounding thud. “It’s nothing!” 

Trevelyan scooted back and held the book out of reach. She read the title out loud. “‘Swords & Shields’...wait, is this…?” Her eyes lit up when she realized what she was holding, and a look of pure, wicked delight spread across her face. “You’re kidding. You are kidding me.” 

A hot blush began working its way up Cassandra’s neck. “Give it back.” She lunged forward and swiped at the book. Trevelyan rolled back over her shoulder and then popped up to her feet in one smooth motion. She steadily backed away from the Seeker as she paged through Varric’s lesser-known work. 

“Maker’s breath! This is _awful!”_

“It’s literature!” Cassandra didn’t think it was possible for the Inquisitors’ smile to get any larger, and yet it continued to grow as she read. She kept skipping backwards, dancing just out of the Seeker’s range. Cassandra darted forward, ignoring her surge of embarrassment as she tried to recover the book. 

_“Smutty_ literature!” The Inquisitor laughed loudly, ducking under Cassandra’s outstretched arm, and began walking backward towards her bedroll. “There’s a lot of unsheathing going on here, and I don’t think they mean swords - ow!”

Trevelyan was too engrossed in the novel to pay attention to where she was going, and her heel struck the edge of a table. She fell backwards and hit her head on the floor with a loud thud. Cassandra leapt astride the prone Inquisitor, landing with one foot on either side of her hips, and bent over to yank the book out of her hand. 

“That’s what you get,” she said, as Trevelyan winced and massaged the back of her head. “I hope that hurt.” The Seeker stalked back to her seat on the bench and pointedly tucked Varric’s novel under her arm and away from the other woman. 

Trevelyan propped herself up on an elbow, still favoring Cassandra with that ridiculous, lopsided smile. “I just had no idea you liked that kind of stuff.”

“Romance is not the sole province of dithering ladies in frilly dresses.” Cassandra raised her chin, challenging Trevelyan to disagree. “It is passion. It is being swept away by the pursuit of an ideal. What is not to like about that?” 

“Nothing.” Trevelyan hesitated. “I...like this side of you.” 

“I do not swoon.” 

“I meant the _passion.”_

“Oh.” Cassandra looked away and shifted her weight on the bench. She felt somehow both unnerved and pleased at the compliment. “That’s not so bad, then.”

Silence fell between them, but unlike earlier in the evening, this time it was heavy and full of tension. Neither of them looked at each other until Trevelyan cleared her throat. 

“Maybe I should read it?” The Inquisitor kept her tone light, but there was still a slight strain in her voice. 

“What? No!” 

“Why not?”

Cassandra sputtered for a response. “Be-because you’re the Inquisitor!”

“Oh, so now romance is the sole province of taciturn Seekers in shiny armor?” The grin was back now: lopsided, cocky, and completely enraging. Cassandra narrowed her eyes and let out a disgusted noise. 

“Fine.” She tossed the book across the room. “Don’t you dare tell Varric.” 

Trevelyan caught it easily with one hand, never taking her eyes off Cassandra. 

“Not a word.”

***

Cassandra sat with her right leg propped up on a small side table. The sun filtered through broken slats in the roof of the guardhouse and a cool breeze filled the room, slightly ruffling the pile of parchments on the Seeker’s lap. Skyhold’s renovations were underway with a vengeance, yet the new commander’s office had been placed surprisingly low on the project list. There were whispers that Cullen preferred the open air due to a severe case of claustrophobia, but Cassandra had decided that was none of her business and never asked. It did, however, make working on correspondence more difficult. 

A sheaf of paper came loose and fluttered to the floor, and Cassandra scowled. She shifted her foot and bent down, biting back a groan as sharp pain shot up her leg. She had injured her ankle several weeks prior during an expedition to the Storm Coast and it was stubbornly refusing to heal. The surgeon and Dorian had both advised her that she needed to rest it more than anything, which, of course, was the most difficult treatment plan for the Seeker to follow. She had been caged in Skyhold ever since, with a drastically reduced training regimen and no other outlet. Pretty much every single person at the fortress was giving her the widest berth possible, including Josephine _and_ Leliana. The only person who seemed unperturbed at her temper was Cullen, and Cassandra was fairly certain it was because he had more important worries. 

Cassandra glanced at the commander out of the corner of her eye. She could practically taste the lyrium still coursing through his blood. He was sitting at his desk, hair perfect, but his eyes looked sunken and hollow. A thin shin of sweat covered his pallid face, and when he reached out to dip his quill in the inkwell there was an obvious tremor in his hand. The mineral was insidious in the way it clung to a Templar’s body, only releasing its hold after months and months of resistance. Breaking the addiction was both incredibly difficult and incredibly painful. 

“I did not see you yesterday,” Cassandra said, keeping her eyes focused on the report in front of her. 

“Yesterday was...difficult. I feel much better today.” Cullen spoke softly, a harsh rasp in the back of his throat. The Seeker frowned and decided to sidestep the obvious lie.

“Did you speak to the Inquisitor?” 

Cullen sighed. “Yes, I told her just before she left.”

“And?”

“She was very gracious about everything.” Cullen laid down his quill and looked at her. His eyes, which had been dull earlier, began to focus and sharpen. “I told her of our arrangement and she approved. She said she trusted your judgment.”

Cassandra gave a curt nod. “Good. I’m glad you discussed it.” 

“Oh, and before I forget, I have a favor from Josephine.” Cullen stood and walked over to her, holding a small dispatch. “When the Inquisitor returns, can you please have her handle this?”

Cassandra skimmed the letter. It was addressed to the ambassador and was raising concerns about some of Trevelyan's more unruly relatives. She frowned, remembering earlier conversations about the Inquisitor’s family, but this particular issue struck her as fairly minor. 

“Josephine hasn’t spoken to her?”

“I don’t know.” Cullen threw up a hand, clearly indicating that he was only the messenger. “I guess Josephine thinks the Inquisitor is more likely to listen to you. At this point, I think she just wants it addressed.” 

Cassandra folded the letter and quietly tucked it away. She tried to return to the report about Venatori activity to the west, but was unable to concentrate. The gnawing, aching feeling that had taken up residence in her chest was back in full force, and she knew exactly why. 

“Any word on the Inquisitor?” 

Cullen sighed and shook his head. “Not since the last time you asked.”

Trevelyan had been gone for twelve days now, a full fours days longer than originally planned for, and Cassandra was acutely aware that this was the longest she had gone without being at her side. The Inquisitor’s absence, coupled with her injury, was grating on her to no end. Even her novels, usually a reliable source of distraction, provided no respite from her steadily growing frustration. In fact, they somehow made things worse, something that Cassandra was just now beginning to realize and chose not to dwell on. 

Cassandra grumbled to herself and shifted in her seat. Another source of her annoyance was the party Trevelyan had chosen to accompany her. Iron Bull, Dorian, and Sera had formed what could be described as a merry band of misfits--although Cassandra thought that far too generous a label--and had established quite a reputation throughout all of Skyhold from their drinking, carousing, and general mischief. And while the Inquisitor was mostly level-headed, the other three had a habit of bringing out her more reckless impulses. 

Cassandra remembered the day she caught Trevelyan scaling Skyhold’s tower with Bull, Sera, and half the Inquisition watching eagerly from the courtyard. When she demanded to know what in Maker’s name had possessed her to do something so dangerous, Bull had just shrugged and said the Inquisitor was doing it simply because he had suggested she couldn’t. Trevelyan had climbed back down a moment later, brushing off her hands and fixing the Seeker with a smug look. It had taken every ounce of Cassandra’s restraint not to punch both her and the Qunari right in their mouths. 

The Seeker’s jaw clenched. Maker knows what those four would get into without her around, especially in the Hinterlands. Even the last dispatch was absurd. Trevelyan had thought it a good idea for Sera to compose the update and the damned thing was barely legible. Apparently, they had encountered some additional Fade rifts and “Inky” was going to “do her glowy thing” and they’d “be back in time for pie.” The elf’s name was scrawled at the bottom of the page no less than a dozen times. The rest of the letter was devoted to two illustrations: one of Dorian and the Inquisitor in matching mustaches captioned with the phrase “No one expects us!”, and an image of Bull throwing Sera through the air with with the word “MAYHEM” scribbled in all capital letters. Cassandra had thrown the letter down when she read it in Josephine’s office, proclaimed them all fools and stomped away, although her injury made the exit far less effective than she had hoped. 

Cassandra settled back, grinding her teeth as she forced herself to focus on the reports. Then, as if her ire alone had summoned them, the sound of commotion at the main gate filtered up to the guardhouse. 

“Ah, there they are,” Cullen announced. 

Cassandra muttered a hasty farewell, threw down her papers, then darted out onto the battlements as fast as she could. She held up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she scanned the courtyard. The party all dismounted easily and raucous laughter soon drifted up into the air. Bull was saying something to Trevelyan, gesturing with arms the size of tree trunks, and the Inquisitor responded with gesture of her own, one that would not be considered appropriate in polite society. Dorian laughed again, and Sera cursed loud enough Cassandra could hear something about “pissing up a rope,” even from her position on the battlements. The Seeker rolled her eyes and began making her way down the steps. 

Trevelyan saw her descending and immediately bounded over, nearly crashing into Cassandra in her exuberance. She took a step back and cleared her throat. Her cheeks were flushed from the sun and mountain air, and she wore her usual lopsided grin. “Seeker,” she, bowing her head in greeting. 

“You’re late.” Cassandra rested her elbow on top of the stone baluster at the foot of the stairs, easing the weight off her leg. She fixed Trevelyan with a glare. 

Trevelyan’s smile faded and her brows knitted together, eyeing the Seeker critically. “And you’re supposed to be resting that ankle.” 

Cassandra bristled. “Don’t change the subject. And what happened to your face?” Without thinking, Cassandra reached for the other woman, but pulled her hand back just before her fingers grazed the Inquisitor’s chin. 

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Trevelyan looked away and rubbed at the back of her neck, trying to hide the welt on her forehead and jagged gash above her eye. Her left cheekbone was swollen and she appeared on the verge of a black eye. “I slipped on some rocks.”

“How did you manage to do that?”

Trevelyan let out a frustrated huff. “It was all Bull’s fault. He saw a dragon and started raving like a lunatic. I got distracted and lost my footing. He’s still mad that I didn’t let him fight it.” 

“Which is a bunch of bullshit!” The Qunari bellowed at the Inquisitor, startling the horses as they were being lead away to the stables by Dennet and his assistants. 

“Would you please shut up about the dragon? I’ll find you another!” she yelled over her shoulder. 

“But I wanted that one!”

Trevelyan shook her head, flinging the same obscene gesture in his direction, and Bull just laughed. Dorian joined in the laughter, and the two of them began walking towards the tavern, the mage reaching up to rest a hand on Bull’s shoulder. Sera made a face, then changed her mind and darted after them. Bull yelled again when they entered the tavern, and his voice felt like it echoed through all of Skyhold. 

Cassandra snorted. “I’m surprised you just didn’t let him fight it himself.”

Trevelyan rubbed at at the temple that was right next to the bump on her head. “It would have saved me the headache. And the aggravation.” 

“No doubt cavorting about the Hinterlands and poking dragons was quite taxing for you.” 

“It was some very serious cavorting, I assure you.” The Inquisitor’s grin returned and she met Cassandra’s eyes with her own. “And, if I recall correctly, it’s your turn to fight a dragon.” 

The frustration and irritation Cassandra had been feeling for days was finally dissipating, almost without her even realizing it, but in its place she began to experience a different sort of tension. A ball of heat formed in her abdomen and traveled up her chest, and she felt her neck and face flush. Trevelyan bit the bottom of her lip and took a half step forward. 

Cassandra remained firmly in place and splayed her hand over the top of the baluster, grateful for the smooth, cold stone beneath her palm. “I made no such promise,” she said quickly. She had been close to Trevelyan numerous times, on the battlefield and in camps, but this time their physical proximity was more distracting than it had ever been before. Up close she could see the Inquisitor's smile, usually so infuriating, was actually hesitant, as if she was waiting for Cassandra to do or say something. 

Thankfully, she was saved by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Her gratitude evaporated when she saw Varric standing behind the Inquisitor, holding a book and wearing a very smug look on his face. 

“Shit, you already finished it?” Trevelyan jumped, and her face lit up in pure excitement. 

“Couple days ago, actually. I could have given it to the Seeker here, but I guessed you didn’t want to miss it.” The dwarf winked. 

Cassandra let out a low groan. “Sweet Andraste...what now?”

Trevelyan and Varric exchanged looks, and she gestured for him to go ahead. He stepped forward and presented a freshly-bound book with both hands. 

“The latest chapter of Swords & Shields. For my biggest fan.”

The smirk on his face was absolutely insufferable, and Cassandra wanted nothing more than to erase it with her fist. She looked down at the book in his hand, then up at the Inquisitor. Any semblance of that earlier shyness was gone, and her grin was just as mischievous as Varric’s. 

She leveled a glare at the other woman. “This was your doing.”

Trevelyan just shrugged, smiling absurdly. Cassandra’s fingers dug into the stone beneath her. 

“Well, if you’re not interested, you’re not interested.” Varric began backing away. “Needs editing anyway.”

“Can I read it, then?” Trevelyan asked. 

Varric looked up at her. “Oh, do you want to know what happened to the knight captain after she was falsely accused?”

“No, I care about the love triangle.” Trevelyan’s eyes flicked over to Cassandra. “Does she end up with that boring guardsman, or the charming rogue?”

“I wouldn’t call the guardsman _boring--”_

“The rogue, obviously!” The Seeker launched herself toward Varric and snatched the novel from him. She ran her hand over the cover and began flipping through the fresh pages. 

“This is the part where you thank the Inquisitor. I don’t usually give out sneak peeks, you know.” Varric crossed his arms expectantly. Cassandra saw a distinct blush work its way up Trevelyan's cheeks, darkening the bruising on her face. 

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” she said softly. 

“It’s all Varric, really. You should be thanking him.” Trevelyan rubbed at the back of her neck again. 

The dwarf bowed theatrically, bending so deeply his nose almost brushed the grass. “I am but a humble servant to my loyal readers.” When he straightened back up, Trevelyan reached out and clasped his hand in thanks. Varric winked again and began walking away. “Totally worth it.” 

Cassandra watched the dwarf leave, suddenly very aware that she was alone with Trevelyan again. Her hands tightened around the volume in her hands, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of the gift. “I can't believe you did this.” 

“I had hoped you would like it.” Trevelyan’s voice caught in her throat and it sounded huskier than usual. A shiver went down Cassandra’s spine. “Now you have a reason to keep off that damn ankle.” 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Remembering the letter from earlier, the Seeker straightened and set her jaw, grateful to revert to the formality she was much more comfortable with. She pulled out the dispatch and handed it to her. “Please speak with Josephine as soon as you can. She has an urgent matter for you.” 

The Inquisitor’s face faltered as she quickly scanned the note, then folded it neatly into her palm. She bowed her head in acknowledgment. “Of course. By your leave, Seeker.” 

She turned on her heel and strode briskly away. Cassandra’s gaze followed her, and she only made it a few steps before the Seeker couldn’t resist calling out one more time. 

“Wait...do you think the knight captain should be with the rogue?”

Trevelyan turned back around and grinned. “Actually, I think she should marry the guardsman, but definitely sleep with the rogue.” Her eyes twinkled and she gave Cassandra a knowing wink, looking for all the world like she could have been a character in one of Varric’s serials brought to life. She held the Seeker’s gaze for a moment, then darted up the steps towards the entrance to the throne room and disappeared. 

Cassandra looked at the spot where the other woman had been standing and curled her new book protectively into her chest, feeling a surge of exhilaration mixed with terror. She let out a long, shaky sigh, then immediately scowled. 

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry excerpt from "In Memoriam A.H.H." by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.


	4. Listen to Your Heart

Cassandra barreled through the entrance of the tent, slapping at the flaps of wet canvas hard enough to shake the entire structure. She threw down her shield and sword, then pushed aside the bedrolls and satchels to clear a space. She hastily unbuckled her gauntlets and tossed them away, then reached back through the entrance. The guards carrying the Inquisitor hoisted her up so Cassandra could grab her limp form beneath the arms and drag her inside. She placed her down as gently as possible, sitting back back on her heels and settling Trevelyan’s head in her lap. Trevelyan groaned and writhed in pain beneath her, face contorted in agony. 

“Blast this weather!” 

Dorian burst into the tent, followed closely by Iron Bull, who had to practically fold himself in half to fit. “Here.” The mage wiped the rain out of his eyes, then produced a small torch and handed it off to Bull, who was kneeling by Trevelyan’s feet. He ignited the torch with a flick of his wrist and Bull held it aloft over the Inquisitor, illuminating the two arrows buried deep in her left side. 

Scout Harding had said that the Western Approach had to be the worst place in all of Thedas, but for Cassandra’s coin, that title belonged to the Fallow Mire. If she never set foot in this place again, it would be too soon. Everything stunk of rot and decay, and the air was thick like rancid soup. All she could think about was the scalding bath she would take the moment they returned to Skyhold. 

Naturally, neither nasty terrain nor foul weather bothered Trevelyan. She lead their small party cheerfully south, onwards through the marsh towards the Avvar stronghold. She didn’t even appear disturbed by the undead that continued to rise from the murky water, or the Avvar leader whose only goal was to apparently best her in a duel. Trevelyan had defeated him with ease, quickly placing two arrows in his neck, right in the joint between his helm and breastplate. On the way back she had even managed to recruit the Avvar priest the party had encountered earlier. When Trevelyan got Amund to offer his services to the Inquisition after only speaking for the briefest of moments, all Cassandra could do was shake her head. 

She had still been thinking about that as they made their way back to Fisher’s End, reflecting on Trevelyan’s relentless optimism and confidence in the dreadful conditions. And not just in the Mire, but whenever they encountered a new problem or seemingly insurmountable obstacle. Nothing fazed the young woman. 

Were it anyone else, Cassandra was certain she would find those traits insufferable. But when it came to the Inquisitor, it never seemed to bother her as much. 

She had been lost in her thoughts, unable to stop thinking about Trevelyan’s easy smile, when the splash came. Bull had been taking up the rear, carefully matching the steps of the smaller party members in front of him, but apparently he had misjudged. Cassandra had drawn her sword and spun around to find the Qunari submerged to his knees in muck and the Inquisitor fruitlessly trying to yank him free. The arrows had flown from across the marsh a moment later, striking Trevelyan twice with dull, wet thuds. 

“Help me get this off her!” 

Dorian’s order snapped Cassandra back to the present. The mage was tugging at Trevelyan’s heavy scout coat, his fingers slick with mud. Cassandra quickly unlaced the thick leather ties on Trevelyan’s front and yanked her arms through the sleeves, ignoring the other woman’s yelp of pain. Unsheathing the dagger strapped to her own thigh, Cassandra set to work on the plain tunic underneath, slicing through thin cotton just under Trevelyan’s left arm to expose her ribs. 

“Why aren’t you wearing any mail?” Cassandra seethed as she worked. 

“Too tight.” Trevelyan spoke through clenched teeth, her breath coming out in a tortured wheeze. “Harritt’s making a new set.” She looked up at Cassandra, eyes wide with panic, lips trembling. 

Cassandra sheathed her blade and bent over Trevelyan, looking firmly into the gray eyes. She fought to keep her voice steady. “Try to relax,” she said, cupping the side of Trevelyan’s face. “Breathe.”

“Easy for you to say.” The Inquisitor tried to flash that bright grin of hers, but at the last minute it twisted it into a grimace instead. 

Cassandra scowled, but kept her hand on Trevelyan's cheek. “Really? Even now you make jokes?”

“You can lecture me later, I promise.” 

Cassandra was about to say that the she would gladly do so when they returned to Skyhold--and the first lesson would be about proper armor--but she swallowed her words when Trevelyan jerked in her arms, arching off the ground and inhaling sharply. Cassandra looked over and saw Dorian prodding at the arrow embedded near her hip.

“Don’t you have a potion to give her?” 

“No time to make it. These need to come out now.” Dorian shook his head. “I can’t see. We need to roll her.” 

Trevelyan moaned as she was turned onto her uninjured side, burying her face in Cassandra’s lap. Her left hand reached up to grab at the back of the Seeker’s neck, opening her side to allow Dorian a better view. Cassandra could feel Trevelyan’s blunt nails dig into her, even through the leather of the gloves she wore. A jolt of energy shot through Cassandra as heat began to rise where Trevelyan’s hand was pressed against her neck, and she realized the magic contained within the Anchor was flaring in response to the injury. 

Dorian pulled gently at the arrow and twisted it, careful not to detach the shaft from the head as he determined how deep it was buried. “Ah, good. No bone. This one won’t be difficult.” He gave his diagnosis with the same smug confidence he always had. The mage withdrew a small dirk from his belt then cast a small flame in the palm of his other hand. He waved the blade through fire until it glowed slightly. Cassandra was buoyed at the site. For all his cockiness, Dorian clearly knew what he was doing. 

Dorian turned his attention back to Trevelyan and made two quick incisions on either side of the arrow shaft. He eased the wound open with the flat of the blade, then began slowly working the arrow out of Trevelyan’s side. The Inquisitor gasped and began shaking, still clutching desperately at Cassandra’s neck. 

“Keep her still,” Dorian ordered. 

Cassandra wrapped her entire arm around Trevelyan and clamped down, hugging the other woman into her as tightly as she could. Her other hand went to Trevelyan’s head and began stroking her hair. Cassandra watched as Dorian continued his methodical extraction, more and more blood seeping from the wound as he worked. 

After a moment the mage let out a triumphant sound and pulled the arrow out with a flourish, the three-bladed broadhead dripping with with bring red blood and bits of viscera. He handed it to Bull, who eyed it critically. 

“Was it poisoned?” Dorian asked. 

“Hard to say.” Bull brought the arrow to his mouth and gently touched the broadhead to the tip of his tongue, then spat. “I don’t think so,” he said with a dismissive grunt, throwing it over his shoulder. 

Cassandra let out a small sigh, hoping the Qunari was right. “Almost done.” She lowered her head so her lips almost brushed Trevelyan’s ear. Trevelyan only nodded, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. 

Dorian had moved on to the second arrow now, the one firmly buried in between her ribs. He used the same technique as before, gently pulling and twisting to determine the exact depth of the arrowhead. 

“At least it didn’t get her lung,” he muttered almost to himself as he examined the shaft. He gave it another turn and it came off in his hand. He cursed in frustration and tossed it aside. 

“Is everything rotten in this fucking bog?” The dirk appeared again. He performed the same ritual as before; casting fire and then running the blade through the flames. He made two deeper incisions, then looked over at Cassandra. “Hold her down. This is going to hurt.” 

Cassandra exchanged glances with Bull. Trevelyan’s legs were stacked on top of one another, and Bull planted one massive hand on her ankles, his fingers so long and broad that they were almost able to wrap around both of her legs. Cassandra tightened her grip as she felt Trevelyan tense beneath her. Dorian paused for a moment, exhaled, then plunged his fingers into the wound. 

A cry ripped from Trevelyan’s throat and cut Cassandra straight to her core. The Inquisitor thrashed against the hands holding her down, trying to arch her back away from Dorian. She was stronger than she looked, and Cassandra was forced to squeeze even tighter; so tight she was afraid she was hurting Trevelyan even more. In response, Trevelyan just buried her face deeper into Cassandra’s lap and began senselessly gnawing at the Seeker’s thick leather breeches. Cassandra grimaced but kept holding on, ignoring the fear rising within her. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Cassandra leveled a glare directly at Dorian. 

“I can’t very well leave it in her, can I?” the mage snapped. Blood trickled down from the wound in Trevelyan’s side, steadily dripping onto to the ground next to him. The metallic scent drifted through the tent, mixing with the thick stench of decay from the bog. Cassandra could taste it in the back of her throat; the tang of death and rot and things unholy. Trevelyan let out out a low, deep groan and she began gasping for air. Cassandra could feel the Inquisitor’s heart pumping wildly beneath her arms. 

“Hurry up,” Cassandra snarled. 

“Oh dear, I am being rather leisurely about this, aren’t I? My mistake!” Dorian didn’t even bother to look up, and Cassandra fought the urge to throttle him. Despite his flippant reply, though, the Seeker saw that his brows were knitted together and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He continued probing with his fingers, each motion drawing a new convulsion from the Inquisitor. “It’s wedged between her ribs, near her lung. I can’t get to it.” 

“That’s not good,” Bull said. Cassandra bit back a snide reply about stating the obvious, and instead turned her attention back to Trevelyan. The Inquisitor’s face was pale, her lips ashen. Sweat began dripping down the her temple. 

Dorian extracted his fingers and shook his head, silently admitting defeat. Trevelyan relaxed slightly, but Cassandra felt no comfort in it. The mage held his palms over the Inquisitor’s ribs, muttering softly to himself as a gentle glow emanated from his hands and spread across her injuries, and Trevelyan let out a sigh. 

“Hopefully that will stop the worse of the bleeding.” Dorian dug through his belt, removing several bandages and herbs. He placed a dressing over each wound. “Hold these,” he directed. 

Bull pressed his massive palm against the wound on Trevelyan's hip, and Cassandra moved her arm so she could hold the bandage over her ribs. Her other hand went back to Trevelyan’s hair, now completely drenched with sweat. Cassandra and Bull kept pressure on the injuries while Dorian set about mixing a poultice in his hands. When it was complete, he motioned for his two companions to remove the dressings, now dark with blood. He quickly rubbed the mixture into the Inquisitor’s side then produced fresh bandages. Bull held Trevelyan up as Cassandra and Dorian passed the roll between them, wrapping the dressing around her hip and ribs, then gently set her down and rolled her onto her back. Finally, Dorian mixed a quick healing potion. 

“Here,” he said, handling it to Cassandra. “This will help for now. I will have to make more.” 

Cassandra pushed Trevelyan up into a sitting position, wrapping one arm around her waist but careful not to touch her injuries. The Inquisitor moved her head just enough to allow Cassandra to pour the potion down her throat. Cassandra then grabbed one of the bedrolls she had thrown aside earlier, placing it under Trevelyan as she slowly lowered her back down and slid out from underneath her. The potion was already taking effect, and her eyelids fluttered closed even as she tried to protest. Dorian nodded, then gestured to the outside of the tent. 

The rain had dissipated, turning instead into a damp, thick mist, but Cassandra’s leathers were so soaked through she couldn’t tell the difference. Bull and Dorian stood off to the side, the Qunari offering his waterskin so Dorian could rinse the blood off his hands. 

“We need to get her back to Skyhold. Now,” the mage said, wiping his hands on his cloak. 

Cassandra jaw clenched. “Can she even travel in this condition?”

“She will have to,” he said. “I did the best I could to prevent tainting the wounds, but in this filth there’s no guarantee. She needs a surgeon to remove the arrowhead. If not, she’ll succumb to fever and infection in a matter of days.” 

Cassandra quickly did the math. They were at the northernmost border of the Mire, thankfully, but still far east of the Frostbacks and Skyhold. It had taken them a week to reach the bog, and that was travelling light, with limited supplies and a small party. Even if they rode through the night, the best they could do was five days, maybe four and a half, once they made it to the Imperial Road. But that would be without any sleep or meaningful rest. She shook her head.

“It will take too long to reach Skyhold., if what you say is true.” 

“Redcliffe?” Bull rumbled, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betraying concern. “It’s closer. And there has to be a healer there.” 

Redcliffe was practically due north from their position. They would have to navigate over the twisting rivers and lakes that lead out of the Mire, and there was no main road, but it was possible. No doubt the entire village would be in an uproar at their arrival, as it always was when the Inquisitor appeared, but that couldn’t be worried about now. 

Two days. They could make it in two days. 

Cassandra nodded. “We’ll leave tonight. Wake Harding; we’ll need her to help scout ahead.”

“I can carry her,” Bull said, gesturing towards the Inquisitor's tent. 

“No,” Cassandra said, perhaps a little too quickly. “She will ride with me. Your horse would be too burdened. Go with Harding and make sure our path is clear. Dorian and I will stay back.” 

Dorian and Bull exchanged glances, and Cassandra braced herself for an argument. None was forthcoming, however, and Bull simply grunted in acknowledgment and set off to raise the head scout. Dorian looked up and wrinkled his nose at the foul weather, his mustache drooping noticeably in the damp air. 

“I will make more potions and send a raven to Skyhold to inform them of what’s happened. Hopefully it will take off in...this.” He waved a hand vaguely at their surroundings and grimaced. Cassandra nodded and returned to the tent. 

Trevelyan was passed out with her head flopped over to one side and both arms laying limp next to her, palms skyward as if she was waiting to receive a benediction. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her face was pale, and the ripped tunic had fallen open to reveal her breast and the left side of her torso, blood streaked across dark tan skin. Cassandra knelt beside her, gaze lingering for a brief moment, and gently spread what was left of the garment to cover the other woman’s chest. 

As she examined the Inquisitor close up, Cassandra saw for the first time the effects of months of training and expeditions. Her fingers brushed over Trevelyan’s shoulder and she could feel the hard muscles just beneath the surface of the skin. Trevelyan would always be smaller than Cassandra, with her years of heavy training as a Seeker, but she still had filled out notably. Long, ropey muscles ran down her arms, her shoulders had broadened, and one could clearly see the definition in her neck. Even her face had hardened, the youthful fullness of her cheeks having been gradually whittled away. The hair hadn’t changed, though; it was still an unruly mop that looked as if someone had plopped it on top of her skull and just left it there. Cassandra sighed, then reached out and brushed Trevelyan’s bangs out of her eyes. The Inquisitor didn’t move. Cassandra turned away and started gathering her things to depart. 

***

Dorian had been right, of course, which just made the entire situation even worse. The fever set in immediately, before they had even cleared the Mire. Trevelyan fought gamely against the infection at first, and indeed at first the potions and healing magic had kept the worst of it at bay. She even regained some semblance of awareness and began squirming in the saddle, fighting against the Seeker and trying to twist around to mutter vague protests about riding on her own damn horse. Cassandra needed to clamp her entire arm over the other woman’s shoulder and chest to keep her still, and only after she put her mouth to Trevelyan’s ear and threatened more bodily harm if she did not shut up did she finally quiet. 

Her body went limp soon after that. She sagged against the Seeker’s broad chest as she began drifting in and out of consciousness once more. Cassandra kept an arm wrapped protectively around her, feeling the heat radiating off the Inquisitor’s face and neck. A low, disconcerting rattle took up residence in Trevelyan’s throat, and it gradually grew louder in Cassandra ear. The Seeker grimaced with each stride the horse took, knowing that the arrowhead was slowly being driven deeper and deeper into Trevelyan’s side. 

They kept up a brutal pace, one that made even Bull huff slightly in protest, only stopping for brief moments to eat and rest their mounts. Dorian grumbled under his breath for most of the journey. And although he kept him complaints to himself, he also kept just out of Cassandra’s range, only coming in close to inspect the Inquisitor’s wounds and hand over another potion. The Seeker was surprised and grateful at the mage’s uncharacteristic restraint, as more and more of her energy went towards keeping Trevelyan upright on the horse, diminishing her capacity for his flamboyance. 

The party reached Redcliffe near dusk on the second day. By the time Cassandra, the Inquisitor, and Dorian passed through the gates, a surgeon was already waiting for them. The tall, thin woman was named Clara, and she took one look at Trevelyan and immediately lead them all to a small clinic near the center of town. She was brusque and businesslike and Cassandra liked her instantly, especially since she wasn’t asking questions about a Seeker of the Truth travelling with a Qunari, dwarf, and a mage. 

Cassandra had actually hoped they would be able to maintain their anonymity, but that was impossible when the surgeon began stripping off Trevelyan’s clothes, and pulled off her gloves to reveal the glowing mark on her left hand. She looked up at the Seeker, eyes wide with surprise, and all Cassandra could do was just give a silent nod. Clara then quickly set to work, setting up her operating table with practiced efficiency and beginning the procedure to remove the arrowhead; it had gone as smoothly as they could have hoped for. 

But that was three days ago. The Inquisitor had yet to wake up. 

“Cassandra.”

The Seeker looked up and rubbed at her eyes. She had taken up vigil next to Trevelyan in the small room as soon as Clara had finished, and hadn’t moved an inch from the Inquisitor’s side since. Dorian was looking down at her with a frown. Cassandra marked her place in the book splayed open on her lap. She couldn’t even remember the words on the page she had just read. 

“You should take a break. A walk, perhaps?” The mage came around the long table Trevelyan was stretched out on, lifting the thin sheet to check her dressings. “Or maybe a bath?” He glanced over at Cassandra and arched a brow. 

Cassandra glowered at him, but could not muster a reply. She had barely slept at all in the pats three days and exhaustion was finally starting to claim her. Her limbs felt leaden and a steady, insistent throbbing reverberated through the back of her skull. Her heavy gaze swept across the Inquisitor’s form and she sighed. 

“Go, Seeker. I will stay with her.”

The kindness in Dorian’s voice was so unexpected it was disarming; all Cassandra could do was just nod and rise out of her chair. Her joints popped and cracked when she stood, protesting hours of inactivity they were not accustomed to. She grabbed the sword leaning against her chair, belted it around her waist, and stepped out of the clinic. 

Redcliffe was bustling in the early autumn afternoon. Things had returned to normal rather quickly after the forced departure of Alexius and his Venatori, to the point where the village now seemed as if it had never been disturbed at all. All manner of people walked by Cassandra as she made her way down to the shores of the lake, too engrossed in their own business to recognize or acknowledge her. She was surprised at her anonymity, considering their party’s presence in the village had not gone unnoticed. She caught excited whispers about the Inquisition and the Herald and speculation about the activity around the small room in the back of the clinic, but no one seemed to immediately place her as a member of the Inquisition. Cassandra supposed it was going to get out sooner or later, despite Clara’s discretion, as the Anchor attached to Trevelyan’s hand was impossible to hide. 

Cassandra actually hadn’t thought about the Anchor for months. The last time she and Trevelyan had even discussed it was back when they had their first real conversation at camp, after the incident by the cave. Trevelyan hadn’t shown any signs of discomfort since. Cassandra had never realized it glowed constantly like that; previously she had only seen it when it roared to life whenever they encountered a rift. It also explained why the Inquisitor was rarely seen without her gloves, a trait that Cassandra had originally assumed was archery-related. She couldn’t imagine carrying the burden of magic like that. 

She wondered if it still hurt. 

The smell of smoked fish and burning wood met her as she reached Lake Calenhad, and she began walking along the docks. The image of Trevelyan’s haggard, limp form was burned into her mind. Cassandra had been worried about the Inquisitor before, in the aftermath of the attack on Haven, but this was different. Back then, she had been sure Trevelyan was alive, with the same certainty as she knew her own name. Now any reassurance that she might wake had all but evaporated. 

Abruptly, she stopped walking, her legs refusing to carry her further. She sank into the damp grass near the water’s edge, clutching at the handle of her sword to steady herself and wishing she could just strike the blade against the nearest tree. Everything they had fought for, everything sacrificed would be for nothing if they lost Trevelyan. Surely the Inquisitor was not meant for this. If she was to die, it should be in battle with Corypheus and his Archdemon, defending all of Thedas from the magister’s threat. Not felled by some filthy corpse arrow in a Maker-forsaken bog because of an inattentive Qunari. Not even Varric would be so cruel as to write an ending like that.

Her weight shifted, and she felt a sudden twinge of discomfort. Reaching back, she found a lump in the back pocket of her breeches, and pulled it out to reveal a small book. Trevelyan’s journal had fallen out of her coat during the chaos in the tent, and Cassandra had completely forgotten she’d even picked it up. She held it in both hands almost reverently, her thumbs gently grazing the unmarked leather cover and worn straps that kept it securely closed. 

Trevelyan wrote in it nearly every night. Not stories, she would say, but _facts._ Truths. The exact order in which things occurred. Cassandra did not understand the Inquisitor’s obsession with record-keeping, but had come to appreciate her devotion to the ritual. The Inquisitor would settle in front of the campfire, her boundless energy finally stilled, quietly unwrap the journal and begin to write. Cassandra would often watch her from across the camp, noting the way her brow furrowed ever so slightly when she was thinking, and how she gently she grasped the charcoal with her long, lean fingers. In those moments, Cassandra always wondered what event Trevelyan was documenting and in how much detail. Whether it was notes about another Fade rift, or political minutiae, or strategies to use against Corypheus. 

Whether it was something about her. 

Cassandra’s hands began to tremble and the book almost slipped from her grasp. Hastily, she stood and jammed the journal back into her pocket. She began walking back to the clinic. This had been a mistake. The fresh air had done nothing to clear her head, and instead just made her feel more agitated. She needed to rest.

Dorian was sitting in her chair when she returned, playing with a small flame burning in his open palm. A full pitcher of ale and several glasses sat on the table next to him. Cassandra had no idea where he procured the drink or who could have brought it to him, but decided it didn’t matter. Dorian curled his fingers closed when she walked in and arched a brow at her early return. 

“Back already?”

“Obviously.” 

He sighed. “I suppose I will have to enjoy this elsewhere, then.” He grabbed the pitcher ad glasses and stood to leave, probably to go find Bull. The Qunari had mostly avoided the clinic, choosing to spend most of his time in the nearby tavern, where he and Dorian had rented a room. He had poked his head in from time to time, twisting his head with an almost comical effort to fit his horns through the door. Cassandra supposed in different circumstances she would have found some amusement in the image, but whenever he appeared all she was reminded of was his clumsiness in the Mire. She knew, deep down, that she was being unreasonable and it hadn’t truly been his fault, but she still couldn’t help seething in his presence. 

Cassandra undid her belt, easing off her sword, and slid into the recently vacated chair. Dorian hesitated, then poured her a pint of the ale and carefully placed it next to her elbow before walking out of the room. She let out a heavy sigh after he left, rubbing at her eyes. After a moment’s thought, she scooped up the pint and drained half of it in one large gulp. It was sweeter than she usually preferred, but at least it wasn’t watered down. She put the ale down and leaned forward, the tops of her elbow on her knees, head hanging down. 

“Cass…”

She jerked back up, unsure if she had imagined hearing her name. Trevelyan’s eyes were open, the grey irises barely visible through heavy lids. Cassandra exhaled deeply, as if she’d been holding her breath for days and hadn’t realized it. 

“Inquisitor,” she breathed, relief washing over her in a wave that was nearly overwhelming. 

Trevelyan’s brow furrowed, as if she was contemplating something, then she licked her lips. “Water. Please.” Her voice was nothing more than a soft croak. 

The Seeker leaned over her and brought a waterskin to Trevelyan’s mouth, sliding her other hand behind the Inquisitor's head. Trevelyan drank until the effort became too great and she pulled away with a grimace. Cassandra gently lowered her head back down to the thin pillow, then returned to her seat. 

“I smell fish.” The grimace deepened and Trevelyan swallowed hard. The rattle in her throat was less noticeable when she spoke. 

“We’re in Redcliffe. You’ve been unconscious for three days now.” 

“Three days?” A confused look crossed Trevelyan’s face, then her mouth curled into a smaller version of her usual grin. To Cassandra it looked like a single ray of sun emerging from behind a cloud. “I think I missed a meeting with some Orlesian nobles. Josephine is going to be pissed.” 

Cassandra felt a smile of her own tug at her lips. “I think that should be the least of your concerns.” 

“I feel like I was run over by a herd of druffalo.” Trevelyan twisted beneath the sheet, testing the wounds in her side, then tried to sit up. 

Cassandra put her palm on the Inquisitor’s shoulder and easily pushed her back down. “Do not strain yourself .” She lingered a moment before pulling back her hand. She expected an argument from the Inquisitor, but none came. 

Instead, Trevelyan’s brow furrowed again and she looked at the other woman quizzically, as if she was trying to discern something. The grey eyes opened wider and her gaze sharpened. “Were you here the entire time?”

Cassandra shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “Yes. But so were Bull and Dorian.” 

“I see.” She glanced away. Cassandra was glad to be free from that gaze, but was immediately struck by a pang of guilt at the feeling. Trevelyan cleared her throat. “Thank you for saving me. Again.”

“There is no need to thank me, Inquisitor.” 

Trevelyan let out a short, dry laugh. “It’s _Everly_ , for Maker’s sake. I thought we’d be past titles by now.” She sounded weary, as if it was a conversation they had numerous times before. Her eyes were back on Cassandra, and the Seeker felt her throat tighten. She swallowed once, hard, and when she spoke there was a thickness in her voice she didn’t recognize. 

“Of course...Everly.”


	5. Hit Me With Your Best Shot

The day was uncharacteristically balmy, even for summer. The Frostbacks never really warmed, and so the fortress was full of activity as its denizens seized the day for the opportunity it was, knowing winter would come hard and fats on the heels of a barely-there autumn. Pilgrims reinforced their tents and stockpiled crafting materials for their winter clothes. The kitchen staff hastily processed the fruits of the extra hunting parties, curing ram and stag meat for storage and ensuring the grain stores were filled to the brim. The rhythmic sound of chopping wood was a constant echo through the entire fortress, as logging parties hauled in extra trees for firewood. 

Over her shoulder, Cassandra heard laughter and song drifting out from the windows of the Herald’s Rest. Apparently others had different notions of how to best spend their time on such a day. She frowned to herself, but tried not to pass judgment. Although she hadn’t spent much time in Ferelden, certainly the Frostbacks would not be kind to them in just a few short weeks, and if some decided to fortify themselves with drink and companionship on a sunny day she could not begrudge them that pleasure. 

However, Cassandra took no pleasure from the warm sun on the back of her neck, or the cool breeze on her face. She continued with her training regime, battering the helpless dummy with the same routine that had been ingrained in her from youth. The same footwork drills, the same strikes, over and over again until they were perfect. And then do it again. Usually she found some semblance of comfort in her practice, but that was not happening today. Even as she ran through the drills until she lost count of her repetitions and struck the dummy over and over again until she couldn’t lift her arms, nothing allowed her respite. No matter how long she worked or how hard she swung her sword, she couldn’t erase the image of Trevelyan stretched out in the tent, gasping for breath. 

Truthfully, the Inquisitor had never been far from Cassandra’s mind, ever since the blast at the Conclave. And it made sense, of course; Trevelyan had been thrust into a nearly impossible position due to forces out of their control and her well-being was important. But at some point Cassandra’s interest had shifted, first to friendship and now to...whatever this was. And _this_ was untenable.

She raised her sword overhead, spun around, then brought it down in a precise strike. The dummy shook violently at the blow and almost tipped over. Cassandra gritted her teeth and struck again. As much as she wished it, she could not physically beat her feelings into submission. And what were her feelings, exactly? Simple attraction, lust, even...? 

She dare not even think the word. 

Her duty came first, as it always had. And always would. 

The sword sliced through the air and the dummy exploded on impact, littering the training grounds with straw and bits of cloth. It had split at the side, and one large chunk still clung to the wooden board attached to the base. Cassandra swung again and the board shattered, the remnants of the dummy striking the stone wall in front of her with a satisfying thud. It joined the two other dummies she had destroyed earlier in the week. She sheathed her weapon and marched off towards the water barrel. 

As she dipped the ladle into the barrel, there was a shuffle above her head, followed by the soft creak of leather. Cassandra glanced up. Trevelyan had appeared out of nowhere and was squatting on the wall of the staircase. She didn’t look at the Seeker, instead fixing her gaze at some far off point in the distance, her eyes squinting in the bright sun. She rubbed her left palm idly, almost like an afterthought. 

“Everly.” Cassandra kept her eyes forward, staring at the stone in front of her while she drank. It still felt odd to say the name, finding herself stumbling over the soft vowel sounds. 

“Cassandra.” Trevelyan kept her voice low, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear. “You look well today.” 

“As do you.” 

Cassandra heard Trevelyan shift above her, but still did not look up. She took another ladle full of water and splashed it over her face and neck. The Inquisitor sighed. 

“Have I angered you in some way?” 

Cassandra tossed the ladle down and began fidgeting with her gauntlets, undoing the buckles and then tightening them back up again. “No, not at all. Why would you say that?”

“You refuse to leave my side for nearly a week, and yet now that we’re back in Skyhold you hide from me.” Sadness crept in at the edge of her voice. Cassandra hated the hearing that note in Trevelyan’s tone. “It’s been almost a month.” 

“I am not hiding. There has been much to attend to.” The Seeker placed her hands on her hips and finally raised her head to look at the Inquisitor. Trevelyan’s eyes were focused on her left hand now, fingers still trailing over the mark. 

It wasn’t a lie, Cassandra told herself. It had been days before the Inquisitor had been well enough to travel again, and they were overdue by weeks when they finally returned. There had been stacks of dispatches to review, new recruits to manage, meetings to reschedule; important items that all needed her attention. She hadn’t been actively avoiding Trevelyan by any means, there just hadn’t been any time. Cassandra had repeated that mantra for days. Weeks, actually, even as she would duck into her quarters far earlier than usual and quickly extinguish the lights, allowing no opportunity for Trevelyan’s habitual visits. Even when the bottle of ale had mysteriously appeared on her bedroll along with a well-used copy of Swords & Shields, a silent peace offering she had blatantly ignored.

“Of course.” Trevelyan’s reply, as always, was diplomatic. She nodded her head towards the remains of the practice dummies strewn about the training grounds. “You’ve been quite busy.” 

Cassandra’s jaw twitched. She looked behind her at the carnage, then back up at Trevelyan. “Did you need something, Inquisitor?”

Their gazes finally met. Trevelyan’s eyes flashed in the sun, the brightest blue Cassandra had ever seen them. The Inquisitor laughed dryly and shook her head, as if she had expected Cassandra’s response. She stood and suddenly launched herself off the wall, twisting in midair to land on her feet behind the other woman. Cassandra spun around, hand on her sword. 

“What are you doing?” she demanded. 

“Speaking in the only language you understand.” Trevelyan unlaced the front of her heavy scout coat and shrugged out of it, then threw it to one side. She reached to the small of her back with both hands and unsheathed her daggers. 

Trevelyan was clad from the waist up in only a short-sleeved tunic and gloves. She must have been in the sun just earlier, as Cassandra could see the sweat glistening on her neck and in the hollow of her throat. Cassandra’s eyes involuntarily flicked over to the wiry muscles in Trevelyan’s forearms and traveled up to take in the definition of her biceps. She didn’t know when the Inquisitor had started focusing so much on her physical fitness, but all the revelation did was aggravate her. 

“I have no interest in games.” Cassandra said, pointedly crossing her arms and forcing herself to look only at Trevelyan’s face. 

“You think I’m playing games? Is that it?” Trevelyan’s voice was lilting, as if attempting to be playful, but the strain in her words was evident. She twirled the blades in practiced fingers, then struck a fighting stance. “You mistake me.” 

Cassandra took a step forward, temper beginning to rise. “Do I?”

“Yes, you do.” Trevelyan jabbed a dagger in her direction. “And since you refuse to talk about what’s going on, I’ll have to beat it out of you.” 

The thought that Trevelyan could best her without a bow was laughable. Cassandra knew she was being baited, but was having trouble refusing the invitation. A familiar, nagging ball of heat was working its way up through her chest, mingling with irritation and frustration that begged for release. She drew her sword and leveled it at the Inquisitor with a dark look. 

“Nothing is going on. And I will gladly put you on your backside if you continue insisting otherwise.”

Trevelyan cocked her head and adopted a look of pure innocence that was anything but. “Is that where you want me, Seeker?”

Anger flared through Cassandra. The comment was inappropriate and presumptuous, if not outright rude. No one had ever dared suggest something like that to her face. She began to flush, though, when she realized that Trevelyan did in fact know exactly what she wanted. 

Their blades came together with a clash, steel shining brightly in the hot sun. Some time had passed since they last sparred, and Cassandra had forgotten how quick the Inquisitor was. Trevelyan had obviously grown stronger, too, and Cassandra had to work harder to parry the daggers that flew past her face like lightning. Trevelyan’s footwork had even improved. They moved across the training yard locked in a fierce dance, both trying to lead, but each refusing to yield. 

Trevelyan relied heavily on her speed, the only advantage she truly had against the Seeker, darting in and out with each attack, nimbly remaining just out of reach of Cassandra’s long arms. The Seeker began having to chase her down, expertly cutting off Trevelyan’s angles until she had the smaller woman almost pinned against the stone wall. Trevelyan ducked and lunged forward, planting both feet and crossing her blades to catch the hilt of Cassandra’s sword. 

For a moment they stood locked together, pressing into each other, and their eyes met. Neither of them moved. Then Trevelyan grinned at her, and it was everything all at once: cocky, infuriating, and utterly perfect. 

Cassandra reacted, as she usually did, without thinking. She jerked the pommel of her sword upwards, breaking the hold. The crack was audible as she connected with Trevelyan’s chin, sending the other woman staggering back. The Inquisitor dropped to one knee and pressed a fist against her jaw, still gripping both of her daggers. Cassandra sighed in frustration, somehow both angrier and wearier at the same time. She sheathed her sword and held out a hand, a slight tremble in her fingers. Trevelyan ignored her the offer, though, and stood up without assistance. She swiftly put her daggers away and wiped at her lips with the palm of her hand. Blood streaked her glove and she spit several times before meeting Cassandra’s eyes. 

Cassandra open her mouth to apologize, but but before she could speak, Trevelyan took two long steps and crossed the distance between them. She stood directly in front of the taller woman, chin tilted upwards, a spot of blood at the corner of her mouth. The sun that had been warming the courtyards all afternoon began disappearing behind a cloud, and Cassandra watched as the Inquisitor's eyes faded to a cold, slate grey. Trevelyan looked at her with the same quizzical intensity as in Redcliffe, searching for whatever Cassandra was refusing to give up. They were so close Cassandra could practically taste the Inquisitor’s skin--sweat and leather and wood smoke, dark and inviting--and it was enough to steal her breath. 

Finally, Trevelyan turned away. Cassandra caught a flash of something in her eyes, but wasn’t sure exactly what it was. The Inquisitor spat again and swiped angrily at her mouth. 

“I am sorry.” Cassandra finally spoke, her voice catching in her throat. 

Trevelyan finished tying with a flourish, cinching the laces so tight they almost snapped off in her hands. She looked at Cassandra, eyes still cold. “Nothing to apologize for, Seeker. After all, it was just a game, yes?” 

Before Cassandra could reply she was gone, leaping over the wall and nimbly climbing the stairs away from the Seeker. Cassandra stood with her hands on her hips, chest heaving, then stomped off. She stalked across the training grounds, pass the remains of the dummies she had systematically destroyed throughout the week. All that remained was a line of boards that torsos had been attached to. Before she even realized what she was doing, her fist shot out and drove through the nearest piece of wood, shattering it to pieces. 

***

Cassandra inhaled deeply as she reached the top of the spiral staircase. She was filled with the scent of old leather and musky paper, the slightest hint of vanilla contrasting with the sharpness of old ink. It was a familiar smell that reminded her of long nights at Montsimmard, faithfully reading over her studies until deep into the night, retiring only when her candle had burned down to the very end. The memory steadied her, and she clung to it as she walked through the stacks. She had always loved the peace that existed in libraries, the stillness that was almost as reverent as in a chantry. Thankfully, that peace existed even in Skyhold, and Cassandra relished the brief moment of calm. 

It was night and the usual occupants of the library had left for their quarters, and Cassandra was allowed to peruse the stacks unbothered. She didn’t even know what she was looking for; just something to pass the time until hopefully she would be tired enough to sleep. Her usual favorites were ruined, as Cassandra’s imagination had finally completed its full betrayal. Now every time she picked up a novel, images of Trevelyan appeared, inserting herself into whatever heroic scene that was on the page. Try as she might, Cassandra could not escape Everly--the Inquisitor, she fiercely reminded herself--and it was driving her to distraction. Already she had lain awake for most of the night, overcome with thoughts of a pair of strong, lean archer’s hands. And, more specifically, where exactly those hands could go. 

Cassandra sighed. She needed something dry. _Very_ dry. An older translation of The Chant, perhaps, or volume of herbology. Maker, she’d take even a cookbook at this point. Anything to drive the madness out of her head.

A light from a nearby alcove caught her eye, and she heard the gentle scratch of quill on parchment. Cassandra peered around the shelf to find Leliana tucked away behind a small table, lit with a single candle and overflowing with scrolls and parchments. The spymaster looked up and rolled her neck. 

“Hello, Cassandra. I’m surprised to see you up at this hour.” She gestured to a stool off to the side, offering the seat, but kept scribbling away. 

“Trouble sleeping.” Cassandra said curtly, dragging the stool over to sit down. “I didn’t know you worked down here.”

“You try working around raven shit all day.” Leilana smiled slightly, and Cassandra let out an appreciative snort. “I am glad I saw you, though. I’d like a brief word,” the spymaster said, passing a note over the table. 

Cassandra skimmed the document. It was a requisition order. “Tell Harritt’s boy he needs to pack the straw tighter,” she said, frowning at the materials on the list. “They’re too loose.” 

“It doesn’t matter how tightly packed they are, when you completely destroy the materials they’re packed _with_.” Leliana shook her head. “Honestly, those dummies were brand new.”

“They served their purpose.” 

Leliana pursed her lips together slightly, the only hint of expression on her face. Her features, as always, remained inscrutable. It was a fact that was disconcerting to most people who did business with the spymaster, but Cassandra had grown accustomed to it over their years of serving together. She never knew what the Left Hand was thinking, and merely accepted that she never would. 

“You should just spar with Iron Bull, then.” Leliana returned to her parchment. 

“Bull?”

“Who else? You’ve bested every Charger twice over, and Cullen’s soldiers are all afraid of you.” 

Cassandra rolled her eyes and tossed the requisition order back on the desk. Leliana waved her hand and the paper disappeared under a stack. “Just get some more dummies. I’m not trying to get a concussion.”

“Pity. You could use a good blow to the head.” Leilana very deliberately dipped her quill in the inkwell. 

Cassandra bristled. “And what does that mean?”

Leliana looked up, ice blue eyes piercing and as clear as a mountain lake. She picked the quill off the parchment and held both ends with the tips of her fingers, twirling it slowly. “Yesterday’s exhibition did not go unnoticed. The Inquisitor was sporting quite the bruise on her jaw this morning.” 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Cassandra folded her arms and glowered at the other woman. This was typical Leliana--revealing only the slightest drip of information to test her subject’s reaction before fully committing to a line of questioning. Cassandra had seen it countless times before, and she was in no mood to be toyed with. Her eyes narrowed, daring the spymaster to continue. 

“It’s not _my_ business, per se,” Leliana said lightly, ignoring the dark look she was receiving. “However, you know the Inquisition has a reputation to uphold, and rumors of a rift between the Inquisitor and a member of her inner circle are the last thing we need. If you two insist upon beating on each other, please do so in private.” 

Cassandra’s jaw tightened at Leliana's very intentional work choice. 

“You needn’t be worried. It won’t happen again.” 

“It won’t?”

There was no malice in Leliana’s eyes, nor humor or disbelief. There was only a calm, steady gaze; secure in the fact that there was more than what was being let on and patience in the eventual reveal. The Seeker screwed herself down further in her seat and glared back at Leliana. She didn’t answer. 

Leliana sighed and laid down her quill. “May I speak candidly, Cassandra?”

Her voice took on a softness that Cassandra had rarely, if ever, heard. The Seeker nodded for her to continue. 

“As we both know, the Maker has put us on this path. And while His wishes at times remain unclear, we are here because we are meant to be. But that does not mean we are to only serve one purpose.” Leliana folded her hands across her papers and placed her elbows on the table. Her mouth quirked up into a gentle smile. “Have you considered that there could be another reason the Inquisitor was sent to us?”

“Such as?” A hot blush was working its way up Cassandra’s neck and face, but she remained steadfast. 

Leliana’s smile only grew wider. “You are a Seeker of Truth. I believe you know where your heart lies.” 

Cassandra looked away, staring fiercely at the column of books just over Leliana’s shoulder. She felt a burst of anger, annoyed at the spymaster’s presumptions, but it faded away when she realized that Leliana was right. 

Of course she knew. She had known since before Trevelyan nearly bled out in her arms, since before they were lead to Skyhold, since before the attack on Haven. It had been a steady descent ever since they first met, when Trevelyan took on the mantle as the Herald of Andraste and set about doing not what was easy or popular, but what was _right_. 

Silence dragged on, filling the space between them, and for awhile the only sound Cassandra heard was the beat of her own heart. She exhaled slowly and continued staring at the books, as if some guidance would appear to her. 

“Yes, I do,” she finally said. “But it can never be.” 

It was the closest she had ever come to an admission of her feelings. She had hoped some sort of weight would be lifted off her, or if by giving voice to what she was experiencing she could somehow be free of it. Instead she just felt heavier. Cassandra leaned forward to rest her elbows on the top of her knees, and rubbed at her forehead with one hand. 

“And why not?” 

“She is the Inquisitor and the Herald of Andraste!” Cassandra raised her head and glared at Leliana, as if the answer was obvious. “The entire world hinges on our actions. We face death at every turn. This is no time for flowers and poetry by candlelight.” She waved her hand dismissively. 

Leliana laughed. “That is the last thing I expected to hear from a romantic such as yourself.”

“Just because I desire something does not mean I shall receive it,” Cassandra snapped.

The spymaster’s smile fell. She cocked her head, and her voice grew even softer. “Why should you not receive that which is the Maker’s greatest gift of all? There is no weakness or shame in it. Nor should you be afraid.” 

“I’m not--” Cassandra protested immediately, but just as quickly swallowed her reply. 

She was afraid. Afraid of what it could mean for the Inquisition’s goals, afraid of the depth of her own feelings, afraid of what would happen when she was in battle with Trevelyan again. Afraid of losing her. Certainly, she had experienced fear before, but it had never held her hostage the way it did now. Had it been this way with Regalyan? She couldn’t recall, and part of the reason she felt unmoored was that this was so alien to her. Maybe too much time had passed. Or, perhaps, it was because she had been so young back then, when everything was so mercifully uncomplicated. Now all she could think of was the consequences. 

“What if she is taken from me?”

Cassandra’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. 

“There would be pain, yes. But no more than if you deny yourself something you truly want. That you deserve.” Leliana opened her hands, showing her palms as if she was holding something to reveal to Cassandra. The knowing smile was back now. “It would be ungrateful not to accept all that the Maker has to give us. Think of it this way: if something is so important that the thought of losing it terrifies you, perhaps that thing should be welcomed, no?”

Cassandra’s mouth opened, but then clapped shut as the simple power of Leliana’s words struck her. The spymaster continued to speak, and voice began to resonate, filling the small alcove. 

“I understand your hesitancy. I have seen far too much of pain and betrayal, even before what happened at the Conclave. And when Justinia was killed, I wondered again and again if this could truly be His plan. But then I thought about the example of Andraste’s sacrifice and what she endured, and I realized that the deliverance the Maker offer us from pain is not no pain--it’s that the pain itself is a gift.”

The Seeker bit her bottom lip. A small pinprick of hope ignited in her chest. Truly, the Maker’s providence was a mysterious and wonderful thing. She had always believed that there were no coincidences, only aspects of that providence not fully understood yet. Perhaps Leliana was right, and this was yet another example of the Maker’s work. This was not a hardship, or a punishment, or a burden. Merely, it was a change in design that would produce something not otherwise attainable. 

But only if she accepted what was being given. 

“I hear Justinia in you.” Cassandra smiled thinly. 

Leliana bowed her head, pleased at the compliment. “As of late, I have spent many hours ruminating on matters of faith. At times I am granted moments of clarity. I’m just pleased I had someone to witness it this time.” She picked up her quill again and pointed it at the other woman. “You should come to Herald’s Rest tomorrow night. I am judging the archery contest, and I expect it to be quite entertaining.”

“Ugh, the tavern? Why would I want to do that?”

“Sometimes I think you enjoy being difficult.” Leliana jabbed at the air with the quill, clearly wishing she was within poking range. “The Inquisitor will be there, obviously, and being seen in public together will certainly quell any rumors. And it’ll give you an opportunity to talk.”

“Oh...I see.” The spark was dangerously close to erupting into a flame, and she fought to tamp it back down. There was no way it could be that simple. But then, almost in spite of herself, she began recalling the easy conversations she had with Trevelyan that lasted too far into the evening, how quickly the other woman had earned her trust, despite their inauspicious beginning. And of course, there was that damn smile, still relentlessly charming no matter how many times Cassandra had seen it. It was impossible to think it could all be for her alone, and if it was, the Maker truly was blessing her. No matter what the ultimate outcome would be. 

Then Cassandra remembered the wild flash in Trevelyan's eyes, right before they turned to stone in front of her. She sighed and rubbed at her face again, regret drowning out the ray of hope. 

“I have no idea if she even wants to speak to me,” Cassandra admitted. 

“I have seen the way she looks at you. I wouldn’t be too concerned about that.” 

Leliana spoke with utter certainty, and Cassandra felt briefly encouraged by the support, even if she didn’t fully believe it. She stood to leave, weariness finally setting in, brought on both by the last few days and the unexpected topic of conversation. “Thank you for your counsel, Leilana. I will think on this.” 

“One more thing, if I may.”

Cassandra paused and considered the spymaster, still seated at the table, and watched as a transformation took place. The piercing blue eyes softened dramatically and the edges of her mouth pulled down into a frown. Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, as if a weight had descended out of nowhere and been placed across her back. It was as sincere a look as Cassandra had ever seen. 

“Whatever you choose to pursue, do not wait. While the Maker is gracious, there is never a guarantee of time.” 

Cassandra went to respond, but quickly stopped herself. 

They had rarely, if ever, spoken of the Hero of Ferelden. Most of what Cassandra knew about the Fifth Blight came secondhand, having been in Orlias throughout the duration of the outbreak. Leliana had told her few stories of the time, but only in passing and never with much detail. Cassandra only knew the most basic information about the Warden--her name, that she was a mage, and her current obsession with curing The Calling. 

Cassandra had asked specifically about Amell just before the Conclave, as Justinia had discussed declaring the Inquisition in hopes of placing hopes of bringing peace to Thedas. Leliana had been adamant that she was wholly unavailable to assist. Cassandra recalled being taken aback by the vehemence in the spymaster’s reply, and that same emotion was echoed in the look she was being given now. Cassandra now realized the extent of the devotion that existed in everything Leliana did. It had always been there, since the moment they met. She had just never noticed it before now. 

And then, as quickly as it occurred, the change was gone. Leliana’s mask slipped back over her face and for a moment Cassandra wondered if she had imagined the entire exchange. The spymaster favored her with the same friendly smile, but it no longer reached her ice blue eyes. Cassandra bowed her head and as she turned to leave, her gaze flicked over to the stacks on the desk. She had assumed Leliana was working on entirely Inquisition-related matters, but just to the spymaster’s elbow sat a tattered map Cassandra didn’t recognize, and a letter faded and rumpled from age. On top of the letter sat a single white flower petal, gleaming like a beacon in the candlelight.


	6. Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore

Herald’s Rest was absolutely packed. The contest had ended hours ago, but apparently the spectators had no interest in leaving anytime soon. To Cassandra it seemed as if every single member of the Inquisition was determined to squeeze themselves into the tavern. People were crowding over the tables, sitting on stairs, hanging off railings. Cabot was running from one end of the bar to the other, frantically trying to serve the crowd amassing in front of him. The roar of laughter and conversation filled all levels of the bar, reverberating through the heavy wood beams. In her usual spot near the stairs, Maryden wielded her lyre like a weapon, strumming mercilessly and almost yelling to be heard over the din. 

From her position on the edge of the madness, just inside the door, Cassandra made a face. It was already giving her a headache. 

She took a deep breath, then began pushing her way through the crowd. A murmur went up and rippled through those closest to the door, and slowly people stepped aside to allow her passage. Despite the noise that filled the tavern, she still caught the whispers as she passed --the whispers that always accompanied her arrival. 

_The Seeker is here!_

_What? Right now?_

_I swear she looked at me!_

She had come to expect that reaction whenever she entered a room. Though her celebrity status in most of Thedas had thankfully faded in the years since the Day of Dragons, her cachet within Skyhold was second to only the Inquisitor herself. It was the aggravating reality of her position as both a Seeker of Truth and the founder of The Inquisition. Cassandra supposed she should be used to the attention by now, but the endless fawning always grated on her. 

Her eyes scanned the crowd for Leliana, but she soon gave up and looked for Bull’s horns instead, guessing that the Inquisition’s inner circle would at least be grouped around each other. Her head turned in the direction of a loud roar, and she saw the back of the qunari, nearly folded in half as he somehow had wedged himself onto a table bench. She didn’t see Leliana. Or the Inquisitor. 

“Oi! Watch it - “ 

Without warning, a young man stood up, spun around, and plowed directly into Cassandra, spilling his tankard of ale down the front of her scout coat. His eyes widened in horror when he saw who he had collided with. “S-Seeker Pentaghast! My apologies, I didn’t…” He trailed off and reached out a hand, as if to wipe the ale off her chest, then froze as he realized what he was doing. 

Cassandra ground her teeth, praying silently to the Maker for strength. She knew she shouldn’t have removed her armor. The boy was one of Cullen’s newer recruits; she had only met him briefly in the training yard and he had practically wet his breeches then, too. She struggled to recall his name. Cale? Caylan?

“I suggest you pay more attention to your surroundings.” She pierced him with a glare, then looked over at the group he had been sitting with. There were four of them, all barely grown men, and they were as still as statues. She eyed each one individually, boring holes into their skulls even as they avoided her gaze. “Our enemies are not nearly as forgiving as I.” 

The boy sat back down, sufficiently chastised and clutching at his now empty tankard for dear life. It was, perhaps, more dramatic than she needed to be. He had clearly made a mistake, but Cassandra was in no mood to suffer inattentive fools. Her headache was in full bloom now, pulsing sharply just behind her eye, and the spilled ale was gradually seeping through the seams of her leathers to the tunic below. Whatever patience she possessed had evaporated, and she wanted nothing more than to find a hot bath and retire to her quarters. But just before she turned to leave, Leliana appeared, vivid red hair just visible above the crowd, and waved her over. Cassandra sighed and pushed towards where they were seated. 

The long table was tucked away in the far corner of the tavern, barely visible from the entrance, and Cassandra wouldn’t have noticed anyone sitting there if not for Bull’s massive form. Leliana, Josephine, and Varric were wedged in on one side; Sera, Dorian, and Bull on the other. Several pitchers sat on the table, and empty tankards were strewn about haphazardly, most of them sitting at Bull’s elbow. She was greeted with a burst of uneven cheering, no doubt the result of a copious amount of alcohol. She raised a hand in acknowledgment, and her eyes traveled the length of the table to find the figure seated at the end. 

Trevelyan was sitting backwards in a chair, her wrists crossed over the back and a mug dangling from her fingertips. She wore a thick cowl that Cassandra had never seen on her before, and it looked like she was trying to tuck her head inside it. Bull was sitting right next to her, and between the angle at which she had set her chair and the cowl, she was hardly visible. Trevelyan was gazing off in the distance with a faraway look, but her eyes quickly snapped over to Cassandra when she arrived and she straightened in her chair. The Seeker thought she caught a glimpse of a slight smile on Trevelyan’s face, but it quickly vanished. 

Leliana gestured for Josephine to move away from the Inquisitor to make room on the bench for Cassandra to sit, pointing at the spot to Trevelyan’s left. Josephine flashed a look at Cassandra, seemingly irritated, and the Seeker wondered if Leliana had told her about their conversation from last night. She felt her own surge of annoyance at the thought and muttered to herself as she sat down. 

Varric was idly playing with a deck of cards, looking like he wanted to get a game of Wicked Grace started, and was rolling his eyes at whatever nonsense Sera was spewing across from him. Dorian and Leliana were engaged in a lively conversation about Orlesian politics. Trevelyan glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, but remained silent. Cassandra could feel Trevelyan stiffen as she moved closer. The side of her jaw was swollen and there was a dark bruise by the corner of her mouth. 

“Hey, Cassandra! Have you ever punched a bear?” 

Sera waved at her from the opposite end of the table, nearly spilling her drink on Dorian. She wore a crown of wildflowers weaved together, but the petals kept falling off with every motion of her head. A gold ribbon was tied around her neck and attached to it was a piece of parchment that boldly stated “#1 ARCHER” in thick handwriting. 

“What? No! Why would I?” Cassandra frowned, both at the absurdity of the question and her hand-made prize. 

“Well, what's it for then? The training, I mean. You stand harder then Cullen's soldiers. Must be for something,” 

“Why should I use my training to assault an animal?”

“Told you.” Bull said to Sera. He filled a tankard from the pitcher and pushed it towards Cassandra. The ale looked flat and smelled too heavily of hops to be appealing. 

Sera threw up her arms. “Don’t you want to know if you could? I mean, I sometimes pot an arrow just to see if I can hit something. Did Andraste say not to use your training for fun?”

“No, Andraste did not specifically say one should not punch bears.” Cassandra sighed and began massaging her temple.

“There you go, then!” Sera stuck her tongue out at Bull, then sat back triumphantly, as if she had just proven a contested point. 

Bull raised a hand and reached over Dorian’s head to jab a finger at Sera. “No, she only said she was allowed to punch bears, not that she actually punched one.”

“Well, she could if she wanted!”

“But that wasn’t the--”

“Oh, come off it already. She can punch anything she damn well pleases, and you all know it,” Trevelyan grumbled, as if Cassandra wasn’t seated right next to her. 

Sera opened her mouth to launch a protest. Bull chucked an empty mug at her head before she could speak. She barely ducked in time, and began crawling over Dorian to reach Bull. The mage, having changed the conversation to a finer point of necromancy, rolled his eyes and shoved her back down into her seat, never breaking his train of thought. 

A surge of irritation bubbled up through Cassandra’s chest. She eyed Trevelyan, but the Inquisitor kept her gaze locked forward. This was ridiculous. If Trevelyan refused to even acknowledge her presence, she could certainly find better things to do with her time. Cassandra almost stood to leave, but was frozen by a stern look from Leliana. She glared at Cassandra and jerked her head towards Trevelyan. Cassandra glared back. Leliana jerked her head again, more forcefully. Cassandra sighed and turned back towards the Inquisitor. She drummed her fingers on the table, then spoke. 

“You did not compete tonight?” The question felt stilted and forced, but she didn’t know what else to say. 

Trevelyan glanced at her. She shook her head. “No. Leliana said Varric, Sera, and I weren’t allowed. Sera is officially protesting the results.” A single, lean finger appeared as Trevelyan pointed across the tavern. Cassandra tried not to look at the Inquisitor’s hand. “Knight Captain Rylen won.”

“I imagine she wanted to give everyone else a fighting chance.” 

Trevelyan snorted. “You flatter me.”

“Trying to.” 

Finally, Trevelyan faced her. The Inquisitor’s eyes were still cold, but her brows knit together and she gave Cassandra a confused look. Slowly, the corners of her mouth turned up into a half-smile, the bruising making it seem more lopsided than usual. Before Trevelyan could reply, however, a server appeared at her side, wedging her way in between them. She placed an overfilled tankard in front of the Inquisitor with an apologetic look. Trevelyan sighed. 

“Which table?”

“To the left of the bar, Your Worship.” She pointed to a particularly rowdy table in corner, then bowed her head and darted away. Trevelyan suddenly flashed a large, sunny grin in that direction and raised the ale in acknowledgement. The roar of appreciation carried over the bar, momentarily drowning out Maryden’s singing. Trevelyan took a long draw, then wiped her mouth and placed the drink next to Bull. He silently grabbed the tankard and finished it in one swallow, adding it to the pile in front of him. The Inquisitor’s smile faded. 

“This is my favorite!”

Cassandra’s attention was drawn away from Trevelyan as Varric let out an excited yell. The song had changed, and Sera scrunched down and twisted her face into an exaggerated grimace. 

“Oi, I hate this bloody song!” the elf complained. 

It took Cassandra a moment to make out what exactly Maryden had started singing, but when she deciphered the lyrics, she rolled her eyes. Sera continued to twist in agony, as if she was being physically pelted by the words themselves. 

“Can’t you tell her to stop?” Sera shot a pleading look at Trevelyan. 

“No.” Trevelyan said. “This is what you get for putting a spider in my bedroll last week.”

“I was just playing! I didn’t think you’d still be sore about that.” 

“Well, I am, and if you do it again I’ll make this song the official anthem of the Inquisition. Every town on the Imperial Highway will know how you were never quite an agreeable girl.”

Bull and Varric erupted in laughter, and the qunari slid another ale over to Sera, who was grumbling under her breath. She slammed back the drink voraciously, then threw the mug over Dorian’s head, aiming for Bull’s face. Bull caught it neatly and set it down next to the others, then grunted loudly as Dorian elbowed him in the ribs. The mage brushed drops of ale from his hair and continued his energetic exchange with Leilana and Josephine. 

The Inquisitor smiled and laughed along, but it was only for a fleeting moment. She glanced over at Cassandra, then it all faded away and she fell quiet again. Cassandra looked down at her ale, which had long ago lost its appeal, and folded her hands tightly in her lap. They sat stiffly beside each other, looking in opposite directions. Each of their companions were absorbed in their own conversations, apparently oblivious to the growing awkwardness at the end of the table. 

Cassandra shifted, uncomfortably aware of Leliana's piercing glare. She wondered whether the spymaster had forced Trevelyan to attend as well. The Seeker really didn’t know what kind of conversations they were expected to have in a crowded, noisy tavern. Each time Trevelyan looked as if she would finally say something she was interrupted. 

The server came over at least three more times, delivering ales and apologies. And, just as before, Trevelyan forced a smile and raised each one in tribute, earning cheers from whichever group had sent it, then slid it over to Bull barely touched. Scout Harding also materialized out of nowhere, appearing next to Trevelyan and attempting to recruit her for the Sing-Quisition. Trevelyan took it all in stride, of course, or at least she appeared to be. But for Cassandra, being this close to the Inquisitor was maddening. 

She took a long swallow from the pint in front of her, making a face at the bitterness of the ale, and was about to leave when she was stopped by someone clearing their throat. Cassandra twisted around and and her hand flew to her dagger on instinct. 

A man and a woman stood at the table, looking disheveled and exhausted. They both bowed to Trevelyan, seemingly in awe of being in the Inquisitor’s presence. They looked vaguely familiar, but Cassandra couldn’t place them. They must have arrived at Skyhold only recently. Her eyes widened when she saw the small bundle in the woman’s arms. 

“Inquisitor.” The man knelt down on one knee. “My name is Luca, and this is my wife Verena. You probably do not remember us, but you and your party saved us when we were set upon by bandits on the East Road. Our home near the Crossroads had been destroyed in the fighting between the mages and templars.” His voice shook and he could hardly be heard over the din of the crowd. The only people who noticed his arrival were the companions seated around the table. The talking and laughing ceased as everyone’s attention turned to the couple and the Inquisitor. 

“We would not have made it out alive had you not come along when you did,” Luca continued. “My wife is--was--with child and…” The man trailed off, suddenly overwhelmed. Verena stepped forward, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. She met Trevelyan’s eyes with a firm gaze. 

“Our daughter was born on our journey here and she fell ill during our travels. There are fine healers in Skyhold, Inquisitor, but they are not certain she will recover. But I know her heart is strong, like yours. Luca and I, we were hoping that she may be blessed by the Herald of Andraste.” She unwrapped the blanket and presented it to Trevelyan. The infant was quite small, with a dusting of fine blonde hair and a round, sweet face. Her breathing was clearly labored and her tiny brow was furrowed as she fought for each inhale. She was pale and blue-lipped. 

“What is her name?” Cassandra asked softly, removing her hand from her weapon. 

“Eleanor.” Verena smiled at her. “For my mother.” 

Cassandra felt Trevelyan freeze, as if she had been approached by a wild animal. She glanced rapidly back and forth between the refugees and their child. “I--I don’t think--”

“Please, Inquisitor?” Luca rose and stood next to his wife. 

Trevelyan looked at Cassandra, utter helplessness in her eyes. All Cassandra could do was nod in encouragement. The din of the tavern that had been assaulting her skull faded into the background as she watched Trevelyan reach out with her right hand and gently place it on the infant's forehead. She glanced at Cassandra again, then spoke, her voice so low it could barely be heard. 

_The Light shall lead her safely_   
_Through the paths of this world, and into the next._   
_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water._   
_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,_   
_She should see fire and go towards Light._   
_The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,_   
_And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker_   
_Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword._

She recognized the verse, of course, as she knew all of the Chant, but she hadn’t expected Trevelyan to choose that one. Nor recite it almost in its entirety. The verse was customarily used during a time of mourning, but to Cassandra it had always engendered a sense of hope, of joy, instead of loss. A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, almost in spite of herself. Trevelyan withdrew her hand, and Verena pulled her baby back into her arms, tears beginning to glisten in her eyes. Luca wrapped his arm tightly around his wife. 

“Thank you, Inquisitor. You are truly blessed with the grace of Andraste.”

Trevelyan nodded and turned away. “Maker be with you,” she muttered. 

The couple bowed again, almost in unison, then darted away, huddling protectively over their child. The Inquisitor threw back the rest of her drink and slammed the mug down on the table. The rest of the companions resumed their previous interactions as if nothing had occurred, save for Leliana, who had watched the entire exchange with a curious look. The spymaster watched the parents leave, then turned back to Josephine. 

Cassandra spoke under her breath. “Transfigurations 10:1. Well done.”

Trevelyan shifted in her seat. Her hands were trembling. “It was the only one I could think of.” 

“It’s one of my favorites.” 

Trevelyan just looked at her, grey eyes soft and almost tinged with sadness. “I know.” 

Before Cassandra could respond, there was a loud crash from the other end of the tavern. Maryden’s lyre came to a screeching halt as she yelped in mid-song and almost dropped her instrument. Cassandra whipped around to see a group of people helping a drunken man stagger to his feet, pulling him off the table he had just landed on and broken in half. His mates shouted down from the level above, and he gave them a sheepish wave as he wiped at the ale soaking his leathers. A Charger shoved a full tankard into his hand and he drank greedily, to the cheers of the bystanders. Maryden shook her head and continued with her song. 

Cassandra let out a disgusted noise at the unruly display, her patience now completely depleted. She twisted around back to the table, but the Inquisitor's seat was empty. 

***

The night air was crisp against Cassandra’s face, a welcome change to the overpacked tavern. She inhaled deeply as she walked, filling her lungs with cool air and imagining she was finally free of the stench of tobacco and sweat and ale that had settled on her skin. She silently resolved never to go into Herald’s Rest when it was that busy ever again. 

After Trevelyan vanished, Cassandra had immediately left the tavern and gone back to her quarters above the forge, fully intent on staying in for the remainder of the night. Even as she changed her clothes and tried to settle in her bedroll, though, she couldn’t forget yesterday’s conversation with Leliana. Nor the lost look on Trevelyan’s face when she had been asked to give a blessing as Herald. 

The request had obviously shaken the Inquisitor, and it was the first time Cassandra had ever really seen a crack in her usually unflappable demeanor. Despite the coldness with which Trevelyan had greeted her, Cassandra still couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy. With the Inquisitor's kindness and cheerful nature it was easy to forget sometimes how much was being asked of her. 

All this was going through Cassandra's mind, over and over, circling over on itself like one of those games children play with strings---the kind Cassandra had only ever ended up with a hopelessly knotted mess when she tried. She scowled at the floor, suddenly tired of her ruminations, of trying to untangle the knot. She instantly made the decision to go in search of Trevelyan, though she still had no idea what to say.

She had been walking through Skyhold for the better part of an hour, and in that time the sun had completely set, sending the fortress and its inhabitants full on into the night. She had been in the middle of searching the battlements when she paused to watch the guards light the lamps at dusk one by one, illuminating the main paths through the courtyards, stables, and kitchens. Despite the rowdiness at the tavern, which she could still hear from her perch two stories up, she could feel the fortress settling into the evening. She placed a hand on ancient stone, cool underneath her palm, and sighed. 

Trevelyan would not have gone to her quarters, that Cassandra knew for sure. It was still too early and the main hall would no doubt be nearly as busy as the tavern; one of Vivienne’s soirees had begun earlier that evening. The Grand Enchanter was slowly becoming notorious for hosting all manner of nobility at Skyhold, and the titles of her guests were becoming more grand with each passing invitation. Cassandra still did not trust the mage completely, but her influence and skill at the Game was obvious. After each party she always managed to secure a new agent or alliance to benefit the Inquisition. Cassandra suspected Trevelyan had allowed Vivienne greater leeway in planning her events in exchange for not having to attend unless it was absolutely necessary.

She still had a feeling that Trevelyan was outside somewhere. Cassandra looked around, knowing that this time of day--when dusk turned to dark and the sky reached that deep midnight blue--was the time of day the Inquisitor loved most. The Seeker remembered when Trevelyan had first told her that, and how the Inquisitor's finger had traced the sky in front of them, stopping at a point halfway between the horizon and directly overhead to point out the exact color she was talking about. 

Cassandra frowned and began descending the battlement steps. If she was wrong and the Inquisitor had decided to hole up in a quiet alcove in Skyhold’s deeper recesses, there would be no finding her. Cassandra walked through the courtyard and up to the main hall entrance. She slid through the heavy doors, careful not to attract attention. Vivienne was holding court around the banquet tables, clearly thrilled to be at the center of her own personal session of the Game. Cassandra stuck close to the wall and quickly darted to the small door on her right, easing through with barely a noise. 

The lamps lining the main path in the garden cast soft a glow on the stone surface below them, but the light was only a few feet in diameter. Cassandra paused a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The garden was empty so far as she could tell. The high walls protected the entire area from the wind, and there wasn’t the slightest hint of a breeze. The noise from the tavern didn’t follow her here, and even the usual foot traffic to and from the small chapel had ceased. The stillness was welcome, but almost eerie. It reminded her too much of the clinic room in Redcliffe, when Trevelyan was stretched out before her, with only the stillness between them. Trevelyan was never still. 

There was a slight creak from a bench, as if someone was shifting their weight, followed by a flash of green just discernible between a row of hedges. Cassandra crossed the garden in two quick steps and found Trevelyan sitting by herself, hunched over with her head in her hands. She had removed her gloves and the Anchor glowed against her face. 

“Seeker.” Trevelyan raised her head as she approached and immediately straightened. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I thought we were beyond titles,” Cassandra said softly. 

Trevelyan’s face twitched, but she didn’t reply, returning her gaze to the ground. Cassandra hovered awkwardly, finding herself overcome by the desire to offer comfort, but unsure of how to do so. Eventually she sat herself on the bench next to Trevelyan, careful to ensure that their legs did not touch. 

“Are you alright?” she asked. 

Trevelyan sighed and laid the backs of her hands on her knees, turning her palms skyward. The magic swirling beneath the skin of her left hand was a bright green that illuminated her entire face. It pulsed in a steady rhythm, and Cassandra wondered if the mark was actually beating in time with Trevelyan’s heartbeat. Slowly, Trevelyan curled her fingers into a fist and the her entire hand began to glow, as if she were cupping her palm around an open candle flame. 

“I understand this is my burden. It was not my choice, but I will not fight it. I told myself I would do right as best I could. But...these people…” Trevelyan clenched her fist tighter as she spoke. “I am not a prophet. I am not a saint. I can’t bring people back to life, I can’t speak directly to the Maker, and I sure as hell can’t heal a sick child!” 

Without warning, her fist slammed down onto the bench with an audible crack, causing the entire structure to vibrate. Cassandra jerked at the uncharacteristic outburst. Trevelyan raised her hand as if to strike the bench again, but Cassandra quickly reached out and caught her wrist. Trevelyan stiffened as Cassandra pulled her hand closer for examination. Blood seeped from a cut on her middle knuckle and already it was beginning to swell. Cassandra’s jaw tightened. 

“You fool,” she muttered. She reached into the side pocket of her breeches and withdrew a cloth dressing, snapping it angrily, then began dabbing at the wound. 

“You’ve done worse to practice dummies,” Trevelyan retorted. 

“I do not unnecessarily injure myself, do I?” Cassandra looked up, eyes flashing. “There are those who prefer the idea of you to the real person. They may ask you for miracles. As for the rest of us, those who know you, we only ask that you continue to be yourself. And to be able to shoot a bow.” 

Trevelyan looked as if she was about to respond, but instead she fell silent again. Cassandra’s chest tightened. She knew what it felt to be crushed under the weight of expectations. Of duty. Of leadership. It was something she had accepted, even if the notoriety that came with her title and noble blood was suffocating at times. Trevelyan, too, had dealt with similar expectations that came with a noble family, but that wasn’t like what she was dealing with now. 

“You have done right,” Cassandra continued. “You are not a fraud or a charlatan, and you have never held yourself out to be something you’re not. You chose to do good with what was given to you. You give people what they need, even if it’s just your words. You give them hope.” She placed Trevelyan’s hand between both of her own, gently pressing the dressing into the injured knuckle. 

“What if it’s false hope?” Trevelyan’s eyes were downcast, trained on the ground in front of her as though the earth held a list of all her sins and weaknesses. 

“What if it’s not?” Cassandra replied. “You were able to offer a family comfort. A small comfort, perhaps, but comfort nonetheless. Take solace in that.”

The Inquisitor sighed. “You are too kind to me.”

“Hardly.”

Trevelyan turned her head but continued to avoid Cassandra’s eyes. She stared at their hands instead, still pressed together. There was a shift in the air, and for the first time that evening Cassandra could finally feel Trevelyan’s icy demeanor begin to thaw. A long moment passed before the Inquisitor spoke. 

“You know,” she said hesitantly, her voice hoarse. “It changes color when I’m around you.”

Cassandra blinked. “What?”

Trevelyan slowly withdrew her hand, then turned it over so her palm was facing up. “See there? That dark green? That only happens when I’m with you.” 

Cassandra’s eyes widened in surprise as, true to Trevelyan’s words, the color shifted. Cassandra’s experience with the Anchor had only been that of fire; angrily spitting green sparks and flame whenever they encountered a rift. Now the mark was calm and a deep forest green that seemed almost peaceful, glittering beneath Trevelyan’s skin. She trailed her fingertips across Trevelyan’s palm, mesmerized as the mark reacted to her touch, trailing the random patterns she was making as if she was drawing her finger through fine sand.

Magic in the wrong hands was dangerous, true. But so was a blade, or fire, or a dozen other things that in themselves held no malice--they just were. Cassandra was no fool to run headlong into battle against a blood mage, but neither did she see reason to fear magic itself more than the wielder of it. And the sort of magic held at bay in Trevelyan's hand was like none they had ever seen before. To fear it would be to fear Trevelyan---Everly. 

And she would not be afraid. 

“Sometimes you don’t even have to be near. All I have to do is think about you and it does that.” Trevelyan swallowed once, hard, then abruptly pulled her hand away. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Her words came out in a hiss. 

In an instant, the cold between them came rushing back, as if a wall had suddenly been erected. Trevelyan’s entire body was tense as she placed both hands on either side of her and gripped at the bench, the wood creaking in protest. She scowled at the air in front of her, not daring to look in any direction. The shift was so sudden it was almost disorienting. 

“I need to apologize for my behavior as of late. I’ve been completely inappropriate around you.” The Inquisitor spoke in same even tone she used whenever she was addressing her advisors or conducting a meeting: calm, matter-of-fact. Without emotion. 

“I think, perhaps, I misinterpreted some things and thought something existed that actually does not. I did not mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I promise it won’t happen again. I don’t wish to make things awkward between us. You’ve been a good...friend.” 

Trevelyan choked on that last word, forcing it out in the open. As if saying it out loud would alter the reality of what was happening between them. But words had meaning. They had power. 

And that was the wrong word. 

For a brief, absurd moment, Cassandra thought about walking away. It would be easier that way, to just let Trevelyan continue to believe it was all just one misunderstanding. To return to duties as usual, without the added distraction or worry. But even as she considered it, her stomach lurched in protest. 

Heart pounding, Cassandra silently reached out to touch Trevelyan’s hand again, sliding across the bench so their thighs were touching. She fumbled clumsily for a reply, but words kept failing her. It should be easy, really, to speak this truth, to tell Everly that she had nothing to apologize for, that it was no mistake, that Cassandra wanted her, so much so that it was actually frightening. But everything she could think of to say sounded inadequate or stilted or--worse yet--horribly cliched, a product of too much time spent buried in fictions. 

Frustrated by her inarticulateness, she resorted to action. She reached out and caught the side of Trevelyan’s face, turning her head so they were finally looking at each other. 

And then she kissed her. 

Cassandra had meant to be gentle at first, to silently ask the question before proceeding further. But when their lips met, the question turned into a statement and the embers smoldering in her chest ignited. She lunged forward, reaching up to clasp the other woman’s face with both hands. Trevelyan’s gasp of surprise was quickly swallowed into a moan, and she returned the kiss with a fervor that Cassandra almost couldn’t believe. 

She’d been on the receiving end of a kiss before, certainly, but never like this. Never with such raw, unchecked emotion. It was tender and sweet and demanding all at once, so much that it made her lightheaded. Trevelyan twisted her entire body around on the bench, trying to move closer, as her right hand found Cassandra’s inner thigh and hooked around the back of her knee, tugging insistently. The strong grip on her leg sent shockwaves down Cassandra’s spine, as she remembered how many nights she had laid awake thinking about this very moment. Trevelyan moaned again and her hand began to slide higher and higher and Cassandra nearly lost herself. It took all her strength to fight the urge to lay back on the bench and pull the other woman on top of her. 

They parted only when Trevelyan made a muffled noise of discomfort and pulled back to rub at her jaw. Cassandra immediately tried to pull away, to put a respectable distance between them, but Trevelyan’s hand tightened on her thigh to keep her near. Although she could easily break the hold, she stopped resisting. 

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say, unsure if she was apologizing for gripping Trevelyan’s bruised jaw, or her rash decision. 

Trevelyan didn’t seem bothered by either. “You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.” She caught Cassandra’s hand and turned her head to brush her lips against the Seeker’s palm. Cassandra gasped audibly, losing her breath at the simple gesture. Trevelyan just grinned, her grey eyes soft and wide in wonder. Her hair was wild and mussed. Cassandra was certain she had never seen anything more beautiful in her entire life. 

All she could do was lean back and whisper. “Again.”


	7. Epilogue

Cassandra closed the door to the forge behind her slowly. She placed both palms on the door and let her head fall forward, pressing her forehead against the heavy wood. Her heart was thundering, her breath ragged, and the heat from the fires made her vision swim. 

And, Maker help her, she was smiling. 

It was practically a foreign gesture, and even though she knew her mouth looked crooked and it pulled uncomfortably at the scar on her face, she couldn’t stop. After several long breaths, she pushed herself away from the door and finally made her way up the stairs to her quarters. 

It had been four days since the night in the garden. Four days of heated looks and fleeting touches. Of passionate moments stolen in a small alcove or deserted corridor. Of feeling lightening run through her every time she was alone with Everly. Cassandra couldn't remember the last time she had experienced such exhilaration. 

Still smiling, she undid her heavy belt and leaned her sword against the small bench near her bedroll, then began stripping off her armor. The taste of Everly’s mouth lingered on her lips and she could still feel Everly’s hands, the way her fingers dug into her hips. It was ridiculous that something as simple as a goodnight kiss could send her reeling, but then again, most things about the Inquisitor were unexpected. Especially this. 

Cassandra was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t see the rose until she almost sat on it. The flower had been carefully placed at the head of her bedroll, next to a folded piece of parchment. Cassandra gasped in surprise. She gently picked up the rose with two fingers, as if it might snap in two in her hand, then held it to her nose. 

When Everly would have found the time to sneak into the forge she had no idea; most of the Inquisitor’s spare moments had been spent planning their next expedition. The War of the Lions had reached the Exalted Plains, and although Everly was loathe to involve the Inquisition in Orlesian matters, reports of new tears in the Veil were flooding in. They were set to depart tomorrow. Cassandra shared Everly’s lack of enthusiasm, but the idea of sharing a tent now with the Inquisitor gave her an undeniable thrill. 

Next she went to the note, almost forgetting to breath as she unfolded it slowly. There was a single line, written in a large, looping hand, signed only with the letter “E.” She read it over and over again, enthralled by the sharp angles and expressive curves of Everly’s handwriting. 

_If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk through my garden forever._

It wasn’t an uncommon phrase. Cassandra had come across different versions of the sentiment in various novels, and in fact, was fairly certain that Varric had stolen it from a more poetic author. But that didn’t matter. Because this time it had been written for her, meant for her. She had inspired those feelings in someone else, something that she thought was no longer in her destiny. 

Had she somehow found her ideal, that it yet existed, in the form of a young, impish rogue with messy hair and an irrepressible grin? She had doubted for so long that it was even possible. All Cassandra knew for certain was that no one had ever looked at her they way Everly did--like she was the only thing in the entire world that mattered, like she was finally being _seen_ , all the way through the hard exterior and plates of armor to the person underneath. It was far too early for grand proclamations or promises, yet she couldn’t help but feel the potential of something extraordinary. The first chapter in a story Cassandra had always hoped would be written about her. 

A strange sensation bubbled up through her chest, and she suddenly let out an odd noise that could only be described as a giggle. She immediately made a face. Grumbling to herself, Cassandra stood and went to her desk, rummaging around for a blank piece of parchment and a quill. She found a piece small enough that, when folded, would fit easily into Everly’s hand or pocket. She dipped the quill then hesitated, thinking for a moment before deciding on her reply. 

It was a single word. 

_Flatterer._


End file.
